


The Stars That Shudder Over Me

by AkiRah



Series: Hold The Sky [13]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anora is a snake, Denerim Part 2, Heart Break, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, The Landsmeet, Unrest in The Alienage, friendships, masturbation porn near the end, the chapter with the porn will be clearly marked for those uninterested in such things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:43:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkiRah/pseuds/AkiRah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eamon prepares to call the Landsmeet and the party heads to Denerim with the intention of making Alistair king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Approaching the Precipice of Change

Oghren, while smelly and crude, fit about as well as everyone else in the party. Oddly, after a day of full travel, he kept easy pace and seemed to be making friends with Wynne of all people. Not _good_ friends, Surana suspected, but Wynne hadn’t threatened to kick him in the manhood yet, unlike Morrigan. 

They paused for lunch in a clearing along the Imperial Highway, Surana looking out into the distance where she could see the tippy-top of Kinloch Hold. She sighed. 

“Is something the matter, Neria?” Leliana asked, setting her snack in her lap with Schmooples and looking over fondly. 

Surana shook her head and took a pointed bite of her apple. “I’ll just feel better when we’re moving again.”

“You know, I have heard stories about your Circle of the Magi, my dear Wynne.” Zevran had returned from whatever he’d been doing and followed Surana’s gaze with his own. He flopped lazily on the ground beside the rock Surana was sitting on and rested his head against her knee where she could reach down and stroke his head like paying attention to a needy cat. 

“Is that so?” Wynne said, taking a small sip of the drink Oghren had given her that she seemed to be enjoying a great deal. 

Surana looked down at him, admittedly curious where this was going if he’d decided to pester Wynne about it instead of her. “There is a Circle in my country, of course, but perhaps things are different there. I visited the Antivan Circle on official Crow business, once.” He looked up and grinned at Surana. “Met a _beautiful_ apprentice who was _very_ eager for a taste of the outside world…”

“Please” Wynne sighed, “Get to the point.” 

“All I wonder is whether the templars guard the mages here as closely as the do in Antiva. In Antiva, the templars watch the Circle like a jealous husband guarding the chastity of a wanton bride.” 

Surana snorted. 

“Interesting metaphor,” Wynne tapped a finger to her lips. “But, yes, it is not too different in Ferelden.” 

Zevran grinned even more widely. “And is it _also_ true that when the moon swells to fullness, the mages of the Circle gather at the top floor of their tower and, naked under the stars, make love to each other?” 

Surana about choked. Alistair’s ears went red. Morrigan rolled her eyes and Leliana smacked the top of Zevran’s head lightly with two fingers as Wynne sputtered denials. 

“Oh,” Zevran pouted. “I found out recently that it was not true in Antiva and hoped that it would be in Ferelden. Alas.” 

“There, there.” Surana coughed, patting combing her fingers through Zevran’s hair. “There were plenty of bizarre . . . escapades . . . in the tower without anything half as sanctioned.” 

“Really?” Zevran lit up again. “Tell me, my dear Neria, did you ever--”

“Nope,” She shoved him lightly aside as she stood up and stretched, signalling that it was time to get a move on. “Never even kissed someone in the Tower. Came close once but, alas.” 

“What stopped you?” 

“Templar.” 

“A templar stopped you or you were going kiss a templar?” 

Surana shrugged. “Does it matter?” 

They started off again, Surana sticking close to Alistair to gauge his mood after the short, impromptu reference to Cullen. But if that was bothering him he made no note of it, instead he laced his fingers around hers and teased Leliana a little, only to be teased back until his ears when scarlet. 

Nearing the evening Stanton broke past them at a run, Wynne’s staff in his mouth and Surana was forced to let go of Alistair’s hand to run him down. She caught him and took the staff back, snorting and shaking her head while the two of them returned to the party, out of breath but grinning. 

“What was that about?” She asked, handing the staff back. Stanton barked. 

Wynne laughed. “I got carried away talking to him about a few minor transformations, giving him a longer tail or changing his color or any number of things.” 

Surana rolled her eyes. “I’d have stolen your staff too. He’s perfect as he is.” 

“He’s terrible handsome for a dog,” Wynne agreed. 

Stanton barked and hopped around them, wagging his stump of a tail and looking incredibly pleased with himself.

* * *

“So, you and Alistair,” Leliana batted her eyelashes as she and Surana set up “their” tent together, now that Oghren was using what had been Surana’s. 

“Hmm?” 

“You and Alistair, together, looking contented.” Leliana’s smile grew wide and mischievous. “You even have a. . . glow about you, so shameless.” 

Surana blushed. “He . . . he does make me very happy.” 

“So . . .” Leliana spread out her bedroll immediately beside Surana’s where it would be warmest. “How _is_ Alistair.” 

Surana puzzled and looked out of the tent over at where Alistair and Oghren were arguing about _something_. Alistair was pointedly not looking at him and looking annoyed and Oghren was laughing. “He looks fine to me.” Surana pulled her head back into the tent. 

Leliana shook her head. “You know what I mean. That long night in the palace in Orzammar, _together_.” 

Surana went scarlet. 

“He must be quite good, or else you wouldn't look so happy, right? He must be. He’s athletic; that’s always nice. He’s also good at following instructions, isn’t he?” 

Surana sputtered and brought both hands up, palms forward, to defend herself. “We . . .we haven’t. Not uh . . . I’m still a . . . _Maker’s Breath_.” 

Leliana’s eyes went wide and she covered her mouth. “Oh! I didn’t mean to assume I just--”

“No, no no,” Surana explained hurriedly, waving her hands with deseperation. “It’s just, Cullen, you remember? Alistair and I, we, well, mostly he, thought it might be best to wait. With the darkspawn and all. And there hasn’t been much of a chance for privacy and--”

“That’s so sweet.” 

Surana dropped her hands and laughed, she reached up to her braid and started unraveling it. “It’s also, Maker take me, Leliana it’s so _frustrating_. 

Leliana’s laughter shook the tent flaps. 

They were camped on the opposite shore of Lake Calenhad. It was Surana’s turn at the pot, with Zevran kindly offering instruction. She carried Alistair’s bowl over to where he was arguing with Shale and caught the end of their conversation. 

“Maybe you should ask her why she likes me so much instead of bothering me with it,” Alistair pushed his armor the rest of the way inside his tent. 

“It has a loud mouth. Why its head has not been crushed already is hard to imagine.” 

“Or _maybe_ you just happen to figure she likes me a lot more than she likes you.” 

“Don’t be foolish.” 

“Yes.” Alistair grinned. “I thought so. Just watch your step or I’m totally telling.” 

“Telling who what?” Surana interrupted, holding Alistair’s bowl out to him. “It’s not good, by the way, Zevran says I’m still shit at seasoning.” 

“I’m going to stand over there now,” Shale excused itself and thundered over to stand beside Sten’s tent instead. Surana watched it go and then turned her attention back to Alistair. 

“Did I miss something?” 

“Shale was trying to tease me, I think.” 

“What about.” 

Alistair’s smile warmed. “You.” 

“T-tease? What? How . . . why would?” Surana squared her shoulders. “First smart comment and I feed everyone to the Darkspawn.” 

“That’s why.” Alistair said.

* * *

Irving was delighted to see her when they reached the circle tower, looking up from an argument (some things never changed) with Greagoir as a Tranquil showed Wynne and Surana into his office. Surana clutched Dagna’s letter in one hand and extended it to him. “As an aside to all the important prep work I’m supposed to ask about, a dwarf wants to study here at the Circle. She’s already dead the _Katab_ and I pointed her at _Beyond the Veil_ , she knows her stuff.” 

“Is that so.” Irving looked over the letter. “It is common knowledge that dwarves lack the . . . aptitude for spell craft. She will never be able to weave the simplest spell, no matter how hard she tries.” 

“She knows,” Surana shrugged. “She wants to study anyway, theory, mostly, I think.” 

“Fascinating. I suppose the Circle should be flattered.” 

“She’s willing to give up caste and clan for this.” Surana crossed her arms. “Flattered should be an understatement.” 

Irving gave her a familiar look of “no is not the time for your attitude,” but it was tinged with the same fondness he had always worn when looking at her that way. “If she is willing to sacrifice so much, then the Circle is honored. I’ll have someone fetch her immediately, she’ll live with the Tranquil and perhaps the apprentices, when it’s appropriate.” 

“She’ll be overjoyed.” 

“I only wish the Circle was in better shape. I fear she may be disappointed when she arrives.” 

Surana smiled. “You’ll have extra hands to rebuild. She’s smith caste and if she’s half-as-bright as she seems she’ll have ideas of her own. Oh! Which reminds me.” Surana slung her pack off her shoulders and dug through the contents until she found the box with the lyrium in it. “A gift.” 

“Neria. Lyrium trade is--”

“I know, I know,” Surana set the box on his desk. “It was meant for the Circle anyway, just less legally, consider it a gift.” 

“Do you know who the buyer was?” 

“Didn’t ask,” Surana lied with a shrug. 

Irving clearly didn’t believe her, but also didn’t press, Surana was grateful for that. She filled him in on the next steps of her plan, Alistair’s heritage and Eamon’s talk of the Landsmeet. Irving listened, but didn’t have any advice and no political clout to speak of. After what had happened with Uldred, however, there was no love lost between the Loghain and the Circle. Though he hadn’t been able to say as much, Surana left with the feeling that if it came to a proper civil war, Loghain would have no help from Ferelden’s mages. 

It was something, at least. 

“One last thing,” Surana asked, stopping as she turned to leave. “Connor Guerrin.” 

“He’s here,” Irving confirmed. “Studying, a bright lad, though I worry that he’ll never properly recover.”

“Did the demon leave some sort of . . . trace?”

“Not magical, no, but he’s only a child and he’s been responsible for so much death. It will be hard for him to move past that.” 

Surana nodded. “I understand, thank you, first Enchanter.” 

“Do take care of yourself, Neria. You’ve made us all very proud.”

* * *

They walked another day and came to Redcliffe, already more lively than it had been when they’d left. Eamon’s knights had mostly returned and brought life and coin back to the village. The banners were flying and the sound of both the knights and the militia training rang through the courtyard as Surana and her companions made their way through, tired and sore, but cheered to see that Eamon was in higher spirits, stronger and healthier. He was in his office when they arrived and they moved to the dining hall where everyone would be able to have a seat. 

“We’ve succeeded in our task to use the treaties,” Surana said, “Orzammar, the Circle and the Dalish elves will all lend their strength when the time comes.” 

Eamon nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. We should set out for Denerim immediately, rather than give Loghain time to anticipate our movements.” 

“I . . . agree,” Surana let the words fall hesitantly off her tongue. “The only question is how will we get into the city? Alistair and I, at least, are wanted for a treason we didn’t commit.” 

Eamon gave her an almost fatherly smile that had no mirth behind it. “Strength of arms. I have enough allies in the Landsmeet that Loghain would have an outright riot on his hands if he attempted anything of the sort. He’s too clever for that.” 

“So it’ll be more assassins then?” Surana looked instinctively over at Zevran.

“I have no intention of letting anyone kill you,” he assured her. “Or Alistair, I suppose.” 

“Thanks for that,” Alistair muttered.

“Let us be off then,” Eamon said, “Teagan, would you make the horses ready?” 

“Of course,” Teagan gave a short bow and turned his attention to Alistair. “A hand?” 

“Of course.” 

They left to prepare the horse which raised, for Surana, a somewhat troubling point. 

“M..my lord?” She looked back at Eamon. “I don’t. . . I have no idea how to ride. We didn’t learn in the Circle for, um . . . obvious . . . uh . . . reasons.” 

“No horses in Orzammar either,” Oghren said, taking a finger out of his nose and wiping it on his filthy tunic. “Though Branka was damn near obsessed with collecting little wooden ones.” 

“Anyone who doesn’t know how to ride may make use of the weapons cart or march with our men,” Eamon said with a small nod. “Though you, My Lady Surana, will likely want to learn someday.” 

“We’ll see, my lord.”

* * *

She ended up riding with Alistair, settled in front of him on the chestnut forder he’d picked out. It was very high up and more than a little uncomfortable, but Alistair kept one hand on her stomach and the other on the reigns as they moved forward at a steady pace.

Wynne was sharing the cart with Oghren, Sten and Shale walking along side. Stanton had hopped up into the straw and made himself comfortable with Morrigan bemoaning the fact that he had down so with his head on her lap, effectively pinning her. 

Both Leliana and Zevran rode, their postures different but their confidence the same. Leliana was stiff, regal looking. Zevran slouched with supreme nonchalance. 

“Are you alright,” Surana asked Alistair, reasonably confident that no one could hear her. “With what’s happening?” 

“Strangely enough,” Alistair sighed, “I am. I don’t want to be king but . . . better me than Loghain.” 

“Infinitely,” she agreed. “Infinitely better.


	2. God Is Busy, You'll Have To Save The Queen Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sooner have they gotten settled and Surana has her braid down than another crisis drops into her lap

Eamon’s estate was the third largest in Denerim, occupying a swatch of land just outside the market district. They arrived in the late afternoon and dismounted, Surana stiff and unpleasantly sorem complaining as she tried to stretch her legs. Isolde was organizing the servants they’d brought from Redcliffe, having bedrooms made up and the estate aired out. Teagan was organizing guard patrols. 

The herald, a small man with a surprisingly loud voice, echoed into the hall the arrival of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, Regent of Ferelden. 

Surana’s stiffness was immediately forgotten as she turned, positioned on instinct just behind Alistair with her staff gripped tightly in one hand. 

“Arl Eamon!” Loghain was tall and broad, a man who had worked to remain as close to his prime as possible. He had a miserable face, sallow with red-ringed eyes sunken from a lack of sleep and a pallor that spoke of stress. He was flanked by a man in fine silks who put Surana immediately in mind of a weasel and an armed woman in fine plate, clearly Loghain’s body guard. 

“Loghain,” Eamon’s mouth smiled, but no other piece of him made the attempt. “I did not expect the Regent to greet me in person.”

“How could I _not_ make time to welcome a man important enough to call every Ferelden noble from their estate while a Blight claws at our land?” Loghain managed to say it without _sneering_ , but only just. 

“Ferelden must unite under a proper ruler before it can face the Darkspawn threat,” Eamon argued. “Since the death of King Cailan Ferelden has no true leader.” 

“Ferelden _has_ a strong leader: Its Queen. And I lead her armies.”

That was more than Surana could stomach. She held her head up and glared daggers at Loghain, forgetting for a moment that she was an elf, a mage and technically wanted for a treason she hadn’t committed. “The throne belongs to Maric’s only living son, the last of Calenhad’s line.” 

“Who is this, Eamon?” Loghain looked down at her with disdain that no templar had ever matched. “Some new stray you picked up on the road. And here I thought it was only royal bastards you played nursemaid to.” 

“Well, you’re admitting the “royal” part. That’s a start.” Alistair quipped through gritted teeth, crossing his arms over his chest and holding his chin up.

“I’m a friend of Alistair's, your rightful king.” Surana answered, tempted to call him out on his crimes at Ostagar and out herself as a warden, but not overly enamoured with the idea of prison or his bodyguard’s blade. The later seemed more likely. 

“You should curb your tongue.” Loghain snapped. For a moment, Surana expected to feel his gauntlet crack into her jaw but the blow didn’t come. “This is _my_ city, and no safe place to speak treason.” His gaze flashed venomously to Eamon. “For anyone.” Loghain folded his hands behind his back and began to pace. “There is talk that your illness left you feeble, Eamon. Some worry that you’re no longer fit to advise Ferelden.” 

“Illness?” Eamon countered. “Call your poison what it was Loghain. The Landsmeet has been called, not all of Ferelden will trade its loyalty as easily as these . . . sycophants.” 

“Have you been away from Court for so long, Eamon? Loghain asked. “Don’t you recognize Rendon Howe? Arl of Amaranthine and Teyrn of Highever?” 

“And current arl of Denerim,” Howe said, his voice just as weasley as his face, nasal and irritating. “Since Urien’s _unfortunate_ fate at Ostagar. The regent has been...generous to those who prove loyal.” 

_Amazing his tongue isn’t brown, considering how far up Loghain’s ass he has it._ Surana thought. “That’s a lot of titles for one man.” 

“Silence, Churl. Your betters are talking.” The woman at Loghain’s side barked at her. 

Loghain held a hand up before Surana could snap back. “Stand down, Cauthrien, this is neither the place nor the time.” 

Cauthrien gave a small nod and closed her mouth. 

Loghain turned his attention back to Eamon and took a long, slow breath, reigning his own temper back. “I had hoped to talk you out of this rash course of action, Eamon. Your own sister, Queen Rowan, fought to unite Ferelden, do you really intend to undo her work? You divide our nation and weaken our efforts against the Blight with your selfish ambitions to the throne.” 

“Efforts against the Blight?” Surana interrupted, earning a murderous glare from Ser Cauthrien. “What efforts can you possibly be making after outlawing the _Grey Wardens_?” 

“Cailan put his faith in the Grey Warden’s prowess and looked what happened? Let us speak of _reality_ not tall tales. Stories will not save us.” 

Eamon held on hand up, cutting off both Surana and Alistair before they could interject with everything that was wrong with what Loghain had said. “I can not forgive what you have done, Loghain. Perhaps the Maker can, but I can not. Our people deserve a king of the Theirin bloodline, Alistair will be the one to lead us to victory against this Blight.” 

“Oh, is that all I have to do, no pressure.” Alistair muttered to himself. 

Surana brushed his pinkie with her own, softening in an instant for his sake. 

“The Emperor of Orlais also thought I couldn’t bring him down,” Loghain growled. “Expect no more mercy than I showed him. There is _nothing_ I will not do for my homeland.” He turned on his heel and marched out of the room, Cauthrien and Howe on his heels. 

“Except admit that you’re wrong,” Surana muttered after him, petulant and determined to have the last word. Alistair’s hand curled around hers, thumb brushing over her knuckles to comfort them both. 

Eamon turned and she and Alistair dropped hands like the other had suddenly turned to ice. 

“Well,” Eamon said, looking from their hands back to their faces. “That was . . . bracing. I didn’t expect Loghain to show himself quite so soon.” 

“What do we do now?” Surana asked. “We don’t know who else he has dancing on his strings. Like that Howe is.” 

“Indeed. Calling the Landsmeet is only the first step, now every noble there must be made to see Loghain’s duplicity. He’s been in Denerim for months, all his schemes have roots here, we must root them out.”

Surana exhaled. “I’ll get it done.” 

“Get settled first,” Eamon suggested, giving her a small smile, “come speak with me when you’re ready.”

* * *

The estate was fine and rather large, but Surana was quietly grateful to find that she was sharing a room with Morrigan. Alistair was given his own room, his right and obligation as a candidate for the throne, but everyone else would be doubling up. Leliana and Wynne, Sten and Zevran, Oghren and Shale (who didn’t _need_ a room but didn’t complain about Oghren’s bathing habits in the same way Zevran did). 

Surana took her hair down and sat on the side of her bed, Stanton already making himself comfortable behind her. Morrigan was unpacking her reagents, setting them on a high shelf where it was at least _less_ likely that Stanton would get to them. 

“So,” Surana combed her fingers through the wild red mass of her hair. “Alistair’s going to be king. Any, uh, thoughts on that?” 

“There was a Ferelden King who drooled upon himself so often that a position was created to wipe his chin,” Morrigan said without turning. “I think it not unlikely that Alistair will fit in with his ancestors fine.” 

Surana snorted. “He’ll be a fine king.” 

Morrigan shrugged her graceful shoulders. “Indeed, you will be there to guide him, will you not?” 

Surana looked up, her fingers moving automatically to untangle her tips. “I hadn’t given that any thought. Probably not? I’m a Warden, we’re--everything I’ve been told implies that our purpose is never supposed to be political.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek. “But, as his friend, yes, I suppose I might. If it all goes as plans and we’re not killed horribly by Loghain or the Darkspawn or the templars or whatever else there is out there trying to kill us.” 

“You’ve been spending far too much time with Zevran,” Morrigan observed. “You’ve picked up his morbidity.” 

Surana chuckled. “I guess.” 

Quick, almost frantic knocks interrupted the conversation and Surana startled at the sound. A human servant, poked his head in when Surana asked, “yes?” and gave them both quick bows. “Arl Eamon wishes to speak with you. He says it’s urgent.” 

Surana sighed and looked over at Morrigan before rising off the bed and following after him, fingers working to rebraid her hair because if it was an _emergency_ she almost certainly wasn’t going to want her hair loose where it could and would catch on everything. 

Eamon wore a look of practiced concern that shifted to nearly apologetic when Surana and Morrigan joined the others in the room. He was standing between an annoyed looking Alistair and a frantic elvhen woman babbling in a thick orlesian accent. Alistair gave her a small smile and rolled his eyes, uncrossing his arms from over his chest, revealing the splendid embroidered mabari on his chest. 

The accent caught Surana off guard, but she pushed that aside. “Sorry I’m late, my lo--” she tore her eyes purposefully from Eamon to Alistair, “my _Prince_.” She gave Alistair an awkward dip of a curtsey. If there were strangers around, they couldn’t be trusted. Everyone in Denerim had to be shown that Surana stood behind Alistair a hundred percent as King if they had a chance of pulling this off. 

Alistair flushed and cleared his throat, looking down at the floor. 

“Ah, Warden, I trust you and your companions have made yourselves comfortable?” Eamon asked. 

Surana nodded as she tied the ribbon around the end of her braid. “Yes, my lord. The estate is lovely.” She looked to the elvhen woman who had stopped talking when she’d entered. “You summoned us, my lord?” 

“Yes. This is Erlina, she--”

“I am Queen Anora’s handmaiden,” Erlina said, her accent just as heavy as it had been before. “The Queen sent me to you to ask for help.” 

“Or perhaps,” Eamon raised an eyebrow and then lowered it gently. “The young lady prefers to speak for herself.” 

Surana about dropped her jaw but forced her mouth closed and her chin up. “Why would Anora ask us for help,” she asked, not willing to use _Queen_ while supporting a different monarch. Not in “private” any way. 

“The Queen is in a difficult position. She loved her husband, no? She trusted her father to protect him. But when he returns with no king and only dark rumors, what is she to think? She worries, but when she tries to speak with him, he does not answer. He tells her ‘not to trouble herself.’” Erlina explained, her hands held in front of her and her expression unmoving from Surana’s face. 

_That_ struck Surana as odd. It would have made sense for Erlina to plead with Eamon or Alistair, not the elvhen woman. But Erlina was clearly expecting _her_ to do something about it. 

“Anora believes that Loghain was responsible for King Cailan’s death?” She asked carefully, hoping to judge the reaction _properly_ and more uncomfortable than she would have been able to admit. 

“My queen suspects she cannot trust her father. And Loghain, he's very subtle, no? But Rendon Howe, he is privy to all the secrets and... not so subtle.” Erlina gave a very small smile, as though privately proud. “So she goes to him, a visit from the Queen to the new arl of Denerim is only a matter of courtesy, and she demands answers.” 

“And given what I picked up from Howe when he was here, I suspect that didn’t go as Anora had planned.” 

“He calls her every sort of name,” Erlina scoffs, indignantly tossing her chin up. “ _Traitor_ being the kindness, and he _locks_ her in a _guest room_.”

“I’m not exactly fond of Loghain, but I have a hard time believing that he would allow that.” Surana looked to Eamon who nodded. 

“Loghain has always treated Anora as the entire world, but his actions of late . . .” 

“King Cailan was like a son to him,” Erlina reminded them all, “and he left him to die. Does he love Anora more? Who can say?”

“Means it’s not particularly unlikely. Right.” Surana flicked her braid over her shoulder. 

“Please, I think...I think her life is in danger. I heard Howe say she would be a greater ally dead than alive. Especially if her death could be blamed on Arl Eamon.” 

Surana bit down on her lower lip before speaking. “We have to get her out of there. Even if Loghain wouldn’t be willing to kill his own daughter to smear Eamon and Alis--Prince Alistair, there’s no reason Howe _wouldn’t_.” 

“That is what we hoped you would say.” Erlina sagged slightly with relief before remembering herself and fixing her posture. “There is no time to lose.”

“I agree,” Eamon looked at Alistair and then let his gaze silence any protests from the rest of the assembled party. “We may have no choice but to trust Anora. She is well-loved, if Loghain--or Howe--succeeded in pinning her death on Alistair or I . . . I’m not sure that’s a risk we can afford to take.” 

“It’s _also_ the right thing to do,” Surana reminded him. She could feel Leliana’s hand supportively brush her elbow. “We have to help.” She turned her attention back to Erlina. “Do you have a plan or is that on me?” 

“I have some uniforms. Arl Howe hires so many new guards every day that a few more will not cause a stir. I will show you to the servant’s entrance, we must slip in and out with my queen before anyone is the wiser.”

“Good plan,” Surana conceded. “Better than storming the place.” 

Erlina nodded. “I will go ahead to Howe’s estate now. Meet me there.” 

“Right away.” 

Erlina bowed, to Surana, then Eamon and finally, slightly begrudgingly, to Alistair. Once she was out the door, Zevran kicked it closed with a light tap of his boot. “I do not like this.”

“It is almost certainly a trap,” Morrigan agreed, folding her arms in front of her chest. 

“I’m pleased we’ve decided to help her,” Leliana held her chin up and beamed at Surana along with Wynne. 

“Let’s hope it’s _not_ a trap,” Surana ran her hands over her braid. “But it might be. For that reason, Zevran, I want you and Leliana with me. You’re both sneaky and perceptive. Everyone else, maintain a presence around the estate, make sure no one knows we’re gone.” 

Stanton growled. 

“You have to stay, boy,” Surana ruffled his ears. “If you’re here everyone will think _I’m_ here.” 

“I’m going with you,” Alistair set a hand on her shoulder. 

“Alistair, if it _is_ a trap we _need_ you here, safe.” 

“I think Alistair should go,” Eamon interjected. “If Anora is honest, than having Alistair in her good graces only benefits us. Moreover, Loghain won’t be able to kill him without causing a stir amongst the other nobles.” 

“I…” she sighed. “Fine. Let’s go.”


	3. Two Crows, An Attempted Murder and Some Successful Ones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party rescues Queen Anora and murders Zevran's ex-boyfriend.

They left Eamon’s estate by the servant’s entrance, wearing simple traveling clothes and traveled through the city by alleyways. Without her staff, Surana felt naked. The staff wasn’t _necessary_ , of course, her powers were innate and the staff merely helped her to focus them. If this all went well she wouldn’t need violence at all. This was in, out, and on their way with a Queen in tow. 

None of that eased her anxiety. 

Alistair’s pinky curled over her own. She breathed more easily, their hands held down out of sight where hopefully no one would notice. 

“I still do not like this,” Zevran said, just behind her. “It feels very much like a trap. You should have just sent Leliana and I ahead.” 

Surana shook her head. “No, I need to be seen doing this. Eamon’s right.” She sighed. “Besides, I’d worry about you two.” 

“Oh? More than you do the others?” Zevran waggled his eyebrows and threw an arm over her shoulders. “It is quite alright to admit it. I’m charming and handsome, terribly more interesting than the rest of your companions. If less lovely than either Leliana or Morrigan.” 

Alistair’s pinky tightened around hers. 

“ _Everyone_ is less lovely than Morrigan and Leliana,” Surana agreed. Leliana blushed. “But I’m fairly certain Leliana would skin you and Morrigan’s not half as nice as she is.” 

“I don’t think Morrigan’s that pretty.” Alistair snorted.

“Yes you do,” Surana argued. “You have eyes. _I_ have eyes.” 

“Indeed.” Leliana chuckled. “Can you imagine her is she weren’t wearing those rags?” Both Surana and Zevran promptly did and cleared their throats as Leliana continued. “Something silk. No! Maybe velvet. Velvet’s heavier, it’ll guard her better against the cold here in Ferelden. Dark red velvet, yes. With gold embroidery. Cut low at the front, we wouldn’t want to hide her features.” 

Both Zevran and Surana had stopped walking. Surana only noticed when Alistair’s hand tugged her a little forward and she flushed a deep crimson. “Maker, Leliana that’s not fair.” 

“Do you think she could be convinced?” Zevran asked. 

“She is very particular about her appearance.” Leliana giggled. “Perhaps for Alistair’s coronation?” 

Alistair groaned. 

“Of course, Neria will need something nice as well. Silk for her.” 

“Didn’t you _just say_ that velvet’s better for Ferelden because of the cold?” Surana turned to look at her. “Less than a minute ago.” 

“Of course, but that’s why you’d need someone to keep you warm. A nice blue silk, deep as sapphires and trimmed with silver, to show off your pendant and contrast with your hair, which you should wear up to show off your beautiful neck and your ears.” 

This time it was _Surana’s_ turn to tug Alistair. 

“Maybe,” she conceded, “if you can get Morrigan in the dress.”

* * *

They were nearing the Arl of Denerim’s estate, coming around the side and hoping it was the right one. Conversation had petered off in favor of paying more attention to what was around them. Zevran had a knife in his hand, half concealed. 

A knife buried itself in a wooden piece of wall just beside her ear, slicing shallowly into the flesh. Surana threw up a barrier immediately. From the shadows stepped a tall man, human, wearing similar black leathers to Zevran’s and smiling. “So, the Grey Wardens, at last,” he chuckled. “The Crows send their regards.” 

Zevran’s knife shone in his hand. “So, they sent you, Taliesin. Or did you volunteer?” Zevran wrinkled his nose and took a small step forward, positioning himself between Surana and the assassin. 

“I volunteered, of course,” Taliesin said. “When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I had to see it for myself.” 

“Well, here I am. In the flesh.” 

The two assassins locked eyes and neither of them moved until Taliesin dropped his head and sighed softly. “You can return to--with--me, Zevran. I know why you did this, and I don’t blame you. It’s not too late. Come back and we’ll make up a story. Anyone can make a mistake.” 

Surana felt a small trickle of fear. That needling doubt that Zevran really would betray her. She smothered it with indignation. “Of course, Alistair and I would need to be dead first.” 

“And I’m not about to let that happen.” Zevran turned his attention back to Taliesin. “I’m sorry, _diletto_ , but I’m not coming back. And you . . . should have stayed in Antiva.” 

Taliesin’s mouth twisted angrily and the knife flashed out of his palm, aimed at Surana’s face. Zevran knocked it aside with his own and darted in. Surana’s fingers charged but the crows were locked together too solidly for her to do anything without risking injury to Zevran. 

The scuffle only lasted a minute and when they parted, Zevran was bleeding but he was the one on his feet. Taliesin hit the ground with his knees, looking up, bleeding profusely from a stab wound in his stomach, his knife nestled in Zevran’s side. Zevran plucked it out and made a quick, single slice across Taliesin’s throat, blood bubbled up and drowned anything Taliesin might have said beyond a gurgle. 

Surana caught her friend as he teetered forward, her hands glowing soft green as she held him tight and willed his flesh to knit back together. 

“And there it is,” Zevran pulled away from her and wiped his knives clean, looking at the ground. “Taliesin is dead, and I am free of the Crows.” 

Surana looked up at him, clearly questioning. 

Zevran returned her confusion with a smaller smile than usual. “They will assume I am dead along with Taliesin. So long as I do not make my presence known to them, they will not seek me out.” 

“That’s good!” Surana insisted. 

Zevran’s expression clouded more fully. 

“Isn’t it?” She added, suddenly unsure. 

“A _very_ good thing.” He insisted. “In fact, the very thing I have been hoping for since you decided not to kill me. I have enjoyed our company but I am wondering if now might be a good time for me to leave. That would be the practical thing to do, no?” Zevran tucked his knives away, speaking more seriously than she had ever seen him. “There is a freedom awaiting me that I have never known. But, I suppose the decision is yours. Will you let me go?” 

Surana dropped her eyes to the ground while she thought, and then lifted them back up to his. “I told you, I won’t hold you longer than you’d like. I do _want_ you to stay though, Zevran. I need your help.” 

“Do you?” His smile came back. “I suppose there are _worse_ things to do with my time than save the world…”

“I’m asking you to stay, Zev, as my friend.” 

Zevran chuckled and looked past her to Leliana and Alistair, rolling his eyes just a little. “Who could resist such a request.” He shook his head and wiped the blood from her ear. “Very well, I will not abandon you. Now, let us be off, there is still much to be done, yes?” 

“More than any of us would like.” Surana passed her hand over her ear to heal the nick from Taliesin’s knife. She looked down at the body and back as Zevran. “Is there anything you want to do with uh…”

“Burn him.” Zevran sighed. “He was Andrastian, it is appropriate, and will dispose of the evidence.” 

“Are you alrigh--”

“Later, Neria.” He gave her a small, weak smile. “We will talk about that later.” 

She nodded and set fire to Taliesin’s corpse.

* * *

Erlina looked moderately distressed that Zevran was covered in blood, but she said nothing, just pressing the uniforms, complete with swords and shields, into the rescue party’s hands. They tugged the armor on over their peasant clothes and Surana balled her hair up into her helmet, grateful that her ears were hidden, even if the hiding was terribly uncomfortable. She’d expected the gear to be heavier. Leliana and Zevran both looked weighted down but she was . . . not _comfortable_ but she felt like she was used to it.

At least no one was likely to comment that she and Leliana were women. 

“What’s with the crowd?” Surana asked, gesturing with her head to the mob of people around the front gate. 

“The estate is in poor repair,” Erlina explained, “Arl Howe has not been . . . prompt . . . in paying his workmen.” 

Surana nodded and followed Erlina around to the servant’s entrance. 

“Why’s he hiring so many new guards?” A human servant asked as they passed, only to be cuffed over the back of the head by his superior. 

“Paranoid. Knows what happened to the last Arl. You know no one’s seen Lord Vaughn since?”

“What happened to the last Arl?” Surana whispered. “And Lord Vaughn.” 

“I am unsure,” Erlina admitted, “Arl Urien was slain at Ostagar. There are rumors that his son Vaughn was the cause of the strife in the Alienage.” 

Surana nodded again. 

“Here,” Erlina motioned towards a door. “I will go distract the guards.” 

“Why are we wearing disguises if they won’t get us inside?” Alistair asked. 

“The gate guards know who is allowed to come and go. They will not be fooled, but the uniform should work on most of those inside.”

“Right,” Surana adjusted the chin strap of her helmet. “Let’s go.” 

Erlina nodded and took off towards the guards at a run while Surana and the others hid behind a large pile of wood left by the construction workers currently crowding the front gate. “Heeeelp!” she wailed. “I saw something in the courtyard! I think it was a darkspawn!” 

Surana watched as the gate guards bickered amongst themselves and followed Erlina away. She exhaled and followed Alistair towards the door, uncomfortably aware that he was the only one of their party who knew how to march _and_ looked the part in the chainmail. But she mimicked him as best she could, hoping that at worst she came across as a raw recruit. 

Probably would have been easier for her and Zevran to just sneak in as servants, though, with the Alienage quarantined that may not have been true. 

They kept clustered together, trying to look like they belonged while they made their way through the estate looking for the guest wing. Muffled under the helmet, Surana’s ears strained for any information, picking up bits of gossip about elves breaking into the estate. 

One of the elves was being held in the dungeons, a guard laughed derisively about how the little knife-ear hadn’t taken kindly to Vaughn fucking his cousin. 

Surana felt like she was going to be sick. 

The Arl of Denerim’s estate was larger than Arl Eamons, but that stood to reason as it was a permanent residence, not a seasonal one. The layout was similar, however, and they evaded notice long enough to find the guest wing. 

Erlina darted past them, having been following at a distance, apparently, blending in with the other servant. “My lady!” She exclaimed in a hushed whisper. “The Grey Warden is here.” 

“Thank The Maker,” a woman, hopefully Anora, said from behind the door. There was a relieved sigh. “I would greet you properly, but I’m afraid we’ve had a setback.” 

Surana pinched the bridge of her nose. “What _sort_ of setback?” 

“My “host” was not content with leaving me under heavy guard,” Anora huffed. “He’s sealed the door by magic.” 

“Neria?” Alistair asked. 

Surana sighed. She brought her hands up and felt for the enchantment, trying to weasel her own magic in, to no avail. She frowned and bit down on the inside of her cheek. “No good. It’s too strong and, given that it’s being maintained without the mage presence, it’s _probably_ blood magic. Alistair, you might be able to weaken it but the only way to tear it _down_ without taking out the entire wall would be to find the mage casting it and probably kill them unless they can be talked into dropping it. Seems unlikely.” 

“The mage will likely be with Arl-- _Teyrn_ Howe,” Anora said with enough venom to make Morrigan proud. 

“The teyrn is most likely in his rooms at the end of the hall.” Erlina said, “I will wait here.” 

“So much for secrecy,” Surana muttered. “We’ll be back soon.” 

“My prayers go with you, Warden.” 

“Surana,” Surana sighed. “And it’s not just me. Prince Alistair and two of our companions are with us. It’s a team effort.” Rather than waiting for a reply, Surana started down the hall in the direction Erlina had indicated, wishing more than anything that she had her staff. With her staff _maybe_ breaking that door down would have been possible. 

Howe was _not_ in his rooms. Zevran and Leliana rummaged around for valuables while Surana noted the open door that lead to the level below. The dungeons. 

She wasn’t sure _why_ the Arl’s rooms lead directly to the dungeon. 

Then she remembered the pieces of gossip she’d heard while wandering around the estate, and elected not to think about it any further. 

The dungeon door was unlocked and they tried to mitigate the sound as it opened but couldn’t keep it quiet enough to keep from drawing the attention of a guard. 

“Stop who goes the--” the guard was cut off by a hand wrapping around his neck while another grabbed the key ring on his belt and pulled him hard against the hidden cell door. Surana watched, eyes wide and half-horrified as the prisoner snapped the guard’s neck, stole the keys and dragged the body into the cell. Surana could feel the little growl of the blight in her veins, like Alistair’s but strongers. She tensed as the cell door opened and out the prisoner stepped, buckling the stolen armor onto himself. “My thanks, Stranger, I have been waiting days for the opportunity.” He was a tall man, human, with the growth of a month’s worth of bear and his blue eyes bright, if weary. “I was hoping someone would--Alistair? Is that you?” 

All eyes fixed on Alistair who immediately puzzled. “How do you--wait, I know you, you were at my joining. You’re one of the Orlesian Wardens, from Jader, right? Or was it Montsimmard. I really can’t remember.” 

The warden grinned and gave a small bow. “I am Riordan, senior Warden of Jader, but born and bred in Highever and glad to be home.” 

“So these are your papers then,” Leliana held a pile of documents out, probably pilfered from when she and Zevran were looting Howe’s rooms. 

Riordan took the papers and flipped through them. “Yes, these are my documents. Names of the dead I could recognize at Ostagar, Duncan’s recruitment records,” his tongue tripped over Duncan’s name and Surana thought she saw the start of tears before he blinked them away. “Copies of the Joining Ritual I rescued from our Denerim vault. There should never been seen by any outside eyes, but I trust in their encryption.” 

“We have a vault?” Surana asked, tilting her head curiously. She shook the answer aside before it could be given. “Nevermind that. How were you captured? Are there any other wardens here?” 

Riordan shook his head sadly and folded his papers, tucking them into his armor where they would be safe. “With an offer of hospitality and a poisoned chalice. I was fool enough to think Loghain wouldn’t remember who I was.” 

“You knew him?”

“Many years ago, when I was younger.” Riordan shook his head again. “A story for another time.” 

“Right. Do you know where Howe is?” 

“I saw him go into the dungeons, he may still be there.” Riordan pointed. 

Surana followed his finger with her eyes. “Right. If you can get out of here yourself, do. Go to Arl Eamon’s estate. You’ll be safe there.” 

Riordan chuckled. “Acting Warden-Commander, I see.” 

“I--I’m not--that it-- _habit_. It’s just . . . it’s habit.” 

“It suits you. I will seek you out after I find a good physician.”

“Arl Eamon’s estate,” Surana insisted again. “There’s a mage named Wynne, she’s the best there is.” 

“I see. Thank you again, Sister.” He inclined his head to her. “Alistair.”

“Yes?”

“Look after yourself.” 

“Right.” 

Riordan left the way they had come, walking with a slight limp. Surana hoped he’d manage to get out on his own, but tugged her thoughts away from that. 

“Perhaps this job wasn’t so fruitless after all.” Zevran said with a cocked eyebrow. “At least we have one ally.” 

“Hopefully two once we get Anora out.”

* * *

The dungeons were a dismal place and that wasn’t surprising. What _was_ surprising was the torture equipment. The sheer _amount_ of torture equipment. Surana had grown up on horror stories of places like this. Places like Aeonar, where they locked up the blood mages they didn’t kill and the people suspected of aiding blood mages. 

The blood was mostly fresh, filling the dungeon with rust in addition to the manky smells dungeons usually carried. 

“Alistair,” she muttered under her breath. She brushed her hand against his. “When you’re king, this ends.” 

He nodded. 

They walked right into a guard patrol and the captain stood up and narrowed his beady little eyes at them. “Who goes there?” 

Surana froze, caught off guard and trying desperately to find some lie. 

The captain grinned, “Howe’s orders were that we could do whatever we liked to anyone who came down here without his permission. Looks like the entertainment’s arrived boy--” 

Surana shoved her hands forward and lightning blazed from her fingertips, electrocuting the man threatening her. She drew her sword as the fighting broke out in earnest, hoping that it might be good for something, blocking or at least making people think twice before rushing her. She had no idea how to use a _blade_. A guard charged at her and Surana moved without thinking, she parried his blow with the flat of her sword and thrusted the tip into his face, channeling fire through the edge as though it was just a staff. 

The guard slumped dead. Surana stared at him. 

_The phylactery,_ she realized. _The Arcane Warrior’s memories. The En’sal’in’abelas._

She looked up to see the that the fighting was over but that everyone was staring at her. “What . . . was that?” Alistair asked, breathing harder than usual and bleeding from a cut to the shoulder. Surana healed the cut and shrugged. 

“Magic? I think. It’s . . . very Knight-Enchanter. Let’s just. . . let’s just go. Our cover’s blown, we need to hurry.” 

She hurried off, bloody sword held in one hand and her heart racing. 

They rescued a Bann’s son, Oswyn, from the rack and he swore to tell his father what had happened and that he was saved by the rightful king, Alistair Theirin. Surana tended his injuries and helped him into some stolen gear, urging him to escape quickly and quietly. They came upon an elf, held for trying to defend his cousin from the ravages of Vaughan Kendells, son of the previous Arl. 

Howe was waiting for them. He had a look of smug superiority twisted on his face and men with bows pointed wicked looking arrows at them. Surana narrowed her eyes.  
“Well, well,” Howe said, linking his hands behind his back with obvious intent to monologue. “I must say, I’m surprised Eamon would condone you skulking around my home and killing my men. Is he losing faith in the persuasive powers of the Landsmeet?” 

“Does Loghain know you have his daughter locked up?” 

“The traitorous bitch has you under her thumb?” Howe laughed. “Anora does love her games, though I’m surprised she’d play with the likes of _you_.” 

Surana tightened the grip on her sword and hoped that whatever had happened earlier could happen again. In her periphery she saw the flash of Zevran’s knife. It was a comfort, more than she had thought a knife flash could be. 

“You should have slunk off to the Anderfels with the rest of your kind, Wardens.” Howe’s nose wrinkled. “This landsmeet is a farce. Loghain will triumph and _you_ will die.” 

“Now!” Surana dropped a barrier around them, causing the arrows to plink harmlessly to the ground as they were loosed. Alistair caught Howe in the face with his shield, lifting the smaller, older man off the ground and chucking him backwards so that as Howe stumbled upright he caught Alistair’s shield with his face. 

“Zev! Mage!” Surana shouted. She tossed lightning and ice at the archers, using her sword to channel and desperately missing the ease of her staff. 

Zevran buried a knife in the opposing mage’s throat while Leliana and Surana polished off archers. They stood, the four of them, in a cluster in the center of the room when the fighting was over, breathing heavily and covered in blood. “We’ll need to change.” Surana pressed her face against Alistair’s shoulder. “We should see who else we can get out of here.”

They found Vaughn and Surana listened as he denied nothing and told her that Howe had him locked up and claimed he’d died as another “unfortunate victim of the elvhen uprising”. Surana raised both her eyebrows. “He was right,” she said quietly, and then stabbed him. “I feel...good...about that,” Surana exhaled, wiping Vaughn’s blood off her face, “after what Soris said.” 

No one argued. 

The most painful of their rescues for Surana personally, however, was the prisoner they found praying in the cell beside Vaughn’s. He was a templar and worse, she knew him. He had been there in the Spoiled Princess when Duncan first took her from the tower. He’d kept to himself while his comrade threatened her. They’d been assigned to find Jowan.

And since she already knew that Jowan had been “rescued” by Loghain’s forces, it wasn’t hard to know that this poor, broken man in front of her had been held here for almost a year. A year, cut off from Lyrium. He was mad by now, dying. 

It could have easily been Cullen. Cullen would have been a likely choice for hunting down Jowan if Surana hadn’t been directly involved. He was young, devout, and determined to prove himself. Surana took a shaky breath. 

“Ser Knight?” She said softly, opening the cell. 

“Andraste, bride of the maker,” the templar looked up at her with empty eyes. “Alfstanna, is that you little sister?”

“No,” Surana shook her head. 

“You . . . I know your face?” 

Surana nodded. “That doesn’t matter. Are you alright?” 

“No. . . Alfstanna I . . .I’m Irminric, Knight-Lieutentant of the Denerim chantry. I . . .I failed. In my duties.” 

“Lyrium withdrawal,” Alistair confirmed. “He’s got all the signs, confusion, weepiness, probably doesn’t know what he’s saying, poor soul.” Alistair set a hand on Neria’s shoulder. “If the Grand Cleric knew he was down here she’d be spitting hot coals. Nobles don’t have authority over the templars.” 

“Or any part of the Circle,” Surana nodded. “I remember.” 

“Maker, forgive me,” Irminic babbled, “I failed and there’s no telling what he’s done.”

“Who?”

“The maleficar. He turned blood magic on the templars to escape the circle. I found him near Redcliffe. Cornered him but . . . the Teyrn’s men took him from me. .. and brought me here.”

“That’s not your fault,” Surana promised. “It’s not your fault.” 

“I should have been more careful, Andraste forgive me.” Irminric bowed his head again. “I...you are real, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“My dreams are...so strange now. Please, if you’re not a dream, help me.”

“What do you need?” 

“Please . . . give this ring to my sister, Alfstanna. She’s a bann. Ask her. . . ask her to pray for me.” 

“I will, Irminric,” Surana promised, “I will.” 

She slid the ring onto a finger where it would be safe and turned away from Irminric.  
“He can’t leave, we can’t take him but we’ll need to send someone to collect him soon.” She pulled her helmet off and let her braid tumble down her back. “Maker’s ass, I’ve never seen Lyrium withdrawal in person before.” 

“Are you alright?” Alistair asked.

“I’ll be better when we’re out of here.”

* * *

With the mage dead, freeing Anora was easy enough. She was a tall woman, pretty even under the guard’s uniform she was awkwardly wearing, fingers wringing ladylike in front of her. She spared Surana something that was probable _supposed_ to be a grateful smile, but fell rather short. “My thanks.” 

“My pleasure,” Surana returned Anora’s attempt with a more honest smile of her own. “Let’s get out of here.” 

“I’ll trust you to lead us safely out.” Anora fidgeted with her chin strap. “Howe’s people will have me killed and my people will insist on escorting me back to the palace, where my father may _also_ have me killed.” 

“I have no intention of letting anyone even know you’re gone,” Surana promised. “We’ll protect you.” 

“...Thank you.” 

Ser Cauthrien was waiting for them at the entrance. Surana chanced a glance over at Anora who went wide-eyed and took several steps back, trying to better conceal herself behind Alistair. Surana exhaled through her nose. 

“Wardens!” Ser Cauthrien glowered at her. “By order of the regent I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Arl Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms.” 

“Well,” Zevran sighed in her ear. “That didn’t take long.” 

Surana squared her shoulders and remembered what Eamon had said about Loghain not being able to kill them. “I will stand down on the understanding that my men go free. You don’t know the whole story.” 

“Why stand down now?” Alistair demanded. “Cauthrien is all that stands between us and freedom.” 

“Are you sure this is what you wish?” Erlina hissed. 

Surana nodded. “Killing them only enforces Loghain’s lies about us. The truth will out.” 

“When has that ever been true?” Zevran growled. She saw the knife flash in his palm and shook her head.

“I’m surprised this ended peacefully,” Cauthrien said, looking genuinely surprised. “Bring the wardens, Loghain doesn’t care about the rest.” 

“Warden _s_? No. I said--Not him.” Surana’s protests were silenced when someone struck her on the back of the head. She hit the ground and watched as Leliana grabbed Zevran to hold him back. 

_Idiot. You thought they’d let Alistair go free with the others_.


	4. Convicts and Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Surana escape Fort Drakon, Anora reveals her ideas for an alliance and Surana learns the secret behind Zevran's last mission.

Surana woke up with her head pounding. She rolled to sitting on the hard stone floor and cradled her temples in her palms, feeling bruised. She wasn’t in the armor any more, just the plain peasant clothes she’d worn under them. She winced and raised her head.

“Maker, you’re awake!” Alistair’s voice echoed. She turned and saw him, bruised up on the other side of the bars that separated their cells. “I was starting to worry.” 

“I didn’t think they’d arrest you too,” she apologized, standing and walking over to the bars where he was waiting. She reached a hand through them and brushed the bruise on his cheek. She wanted to wipe it away, but it would be best if no one _knew_ she was a mage just yet. The fewer templars, the better. “You know, I’ve never seen a prison from this side before, very scenic.” 

Alistair chuckled despite himself, and turned his head to press a small kiss to the tips of her fingers, sending a small, pleasant tremor down her arm. “Join the Grey Wardens. See the sights from the floors of the best prisons in the land! It’s not much of a recruitment slogan, is it.” 

Surana shook her head. “No, not really. Of course, our current slogan of “drink some blood, choke on it, pass out and die early” isn’t _wildly_ better.” 

“I suppose not.” Alistair laughed. 

She pulled away and crossed her arms over her chest, looking around through the bars of her cell. If she were comfortable fighting her way out there wouldn’t have been much trouble in frying the guard from a distance and blasting the door open. But if she did that she and Alistair would have a whole fort full of guardsmen to fight through. They had been in disguise when Cauthrien had arrested them, their effects, the important ones, were back at the estate. Surana reached up for her necklace and found to her relief that it was still around her neck. “Well, we should probably focus on getting out of here.” 

“I hope you have a plan.” He followed her eyes. 

Surana spotted a guard and sighed, dropping her arms to the side and forcing her chin up. “I do, but you’re not going to like it.” 

Alistair raised a confused eyebrow. 

“It _is_ better than waiting for our friends to come up with a brilliant rescue plan. If they try anything, I’d like to at least meet them halfway.” 

“Fair enough. What do you want me to do?” 

“I’m . . . pretty sure it’ll come to you naturally.” Surana offered him an apologetic smile and walked towards the door, she caught eyes with the lone guard in the room. She was lucky in that he wasn’t the sort to keep his eyes from wandering. They traveled greasily down from her face along the curves of her breasts and hips. At least this was going to be _easy_. 

“If you’re not bleeding,” he snorted, walking over, “I don’t care.” 

Surana batted her eyelashes and remembered what Morrigan had told her. _Men are always willing to believe two things about a woman. First, that she is weak, and second that she finds him attractive._ Other girls in the tower had told her the same thing. She’d never had cause to try, but she’d seen seduction in action often enough that she knew to look at his mouth and bite her own when she looked back up at him, trying to affect adoring and said, “I was just lonely.” 

Behind her, in his cell, Alistair made an irritated noise. 

The guard either didn’t notice or liked the idea of someone watching. Probably, thought Surana with an uncomfortable twist in her stomach, the latter. 

“Well, I _could_ keep you company.” He fumbled with his keys and Surana took the distraction as an opportunity to flash a quick glance at Alistair, who was scowling, but silent. She bit down on a brief flare of irritation at that. She wasn’t going to do anything with this guard beyond kill him and that should have been _obvious_. 

On second thought, Alistair probably knew that and that was _why_ he was keeping his mouth shut. 

The door opened and the guard pulled it closed behind him. “Well? Off with it then?” He leered. 

Surana kept her plastic smile in place and walked up to him. She set a hand on his chest as though she were going to lift herself up to kiss him and _instead_ sent a bolt of lightning directly into his chest. The guard gurgled and convulsed, dropping heavily to the ground to twitch, unable to scream as she shocked him again and a third time to be safe. 

“Neria?” 

“Yes?” She dropped to kneeling to grab the key ring and then hurried to unlock Alistair’s cell before anyone came to investigate. 

“You’re terrifying.” 

“Thank you?” 

The door came open and Alistair curled a hand briefly around hers. “You . . .wouldn’t have? Right?” He looked over at the body. 

Surana sighed. “If it had been the _only_ way to get us both out of here? I probably would have. I do tend to prefer electrocution to that sort of nonsense, however.” She brushed pale green magic over Alistair’s temple to heal his bruise. “Think his gear will fit?” 

“Probably, what about you?” 

“I can pretend to be a servant until we find something.” Surana said. “We’ll grab two suits of patrol gear and . . . I don’t know . . . sneak out with whomever’s leaving.”

* * *

They found the armory and changed quickly into a pair of uniforms, Surana’s sitting a little awkwardly but her hair making up for the excess space in her helmet. She followed Alistair’s lead, grateful that at least _one_ of them knew how to march. 

The nice thing about Surana’s inability to march was that it made her look like a raw recruit, but one trying very, very hard. She had, after all, spent her entire life watching templars. She was snapped at almost immediately to locate the rest of her patrol and present for inspection. Suranas startled, stammer-shouted a “Ser, yes Ser!” and when she started going the wrong way was called an idiot and pointed towards the storage room where the rest of the platoon was waiting. 

“Part of the plan?” Alistair asked with a small, teasing grin. 

“Shut up.” Surana grumbled. “The sooner we’re home, the better.” 

There were two guards sitting in the storage room complaining about the passwords that kept each level secure. Surana squared her shoulders and marched up to them. 

“What’dyou two want?” The first guard raised his chin, clearly irritated. 

Surana gave him an apologetic smile. “We’re supposed to get ready for inspection.” 

“Thank the _Maker_.” The second said. “Finally.” 

“What are we gonna do about _him_ though?” The first one asked, the second deflated almost immediately. 

“Something the matter?” Alistair asked. 

“Oh, the assistant Quartermaster is a little . . . miffed . . . with us at present. Some things went amiss and the Quartermaster got chewed out by Teryn Loghain.” 

“So in turn the Quartermaster chewed out the assistant and so he’s ornery?” Surana anticipated. 

“With us, specifically. To get back at us for landing him in trouble, he won’t give us our blades and you can’t pass inspection without a regulation sword.” 

“I’ll handle it.” Surana assured them. 

“How?” 

“Oh,” Alistair shook his head. “She’s plenty terrifying when she wants to be.” 

“I’m capable of being _exceedingly_ pleasant, I’ll have you know,” she defended herself petulantly. “But, yes.” 

“I don’t care what sort of black magic you use. He’s down the hall.” 

Surana gave them a confident smile and started off towards the armory, she paused, turned sharply, and eyeballed them. “You two coming or not? I’m not carrying your damn swords all the way back here.” 

The guards fell into step behind her. 

It was safer in a group than it would have been with just her and Alistair. The thing about uniforms is that the more of them there were, the more easily eyes slid off any one of them. “So, what’s your name? Didn’t know we were gonna have any women in our patrol.” 

“Neria.” Surana said, immediately hating herself for giving her _actual_ first name. “Neria Stanton. Just transferred from Honnleath.” 

“I’m Bran and this is James.”

“Conner,” Alistair introduced himself. “From, ah, Redcliffe.” 

“Neverheard of “Ahredcliffe,” Conner. That in _Orlais_?”

“Shut it, Bran. They’re helping, aren’t they?” 

Surana rolled her eyes. 

“What’s this?” The Assistant Quartermaster, a nondescript human male taking inventory said as soon as the door opened. “You two blighted fools made a couple of friends?”

“I’ve got orders to get them ready for inspection.” Surana gestured back at Bran and James with her thumb. “

“Hate to break it to you, but they’re _never_ going to pass inspection. You’d better go to the colonel and ask him for a posting into a new patrol.”

Surana turned to look at Bran and James. “You two never told me what a softie he is.”

“What?” 

Surana turned her attention back onto the assistant quartermaster. “Willing to risk the Colonel’s displeasure just to keep the two of them safe in here as opposed to out on patrol where they could get hurt, maybe even killed? You, ser, might just be my hero. Of course, the Colonel will lay a damned egg when he finds out, but still,” she whistled. “You’re a man after my own heart.”

The assistant quartermaster sighed and handed over four swords. “Fine, just look after the damn swords. That’s good steel.”

“Yessir.” Surana belted hers on, turned and headed back towards the colonel’s office. 

“Bloody incredible.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow at Bran. “There was nothing too that.” 

“Says you.” 

They marched into the Colonel’s office and fell into line. She conjured to mind the image of Cullen, standing by the wall, the stiff shelf of his shoulders indicative that Greagoir was looking at him. It worked, because the Colonel moved past her, having found her physical presentation adequate. 

That might have also been because Bran was slouching. 

“You there! Don’t slouch. You’re a soldier in the King’s army and the King’s own men don’t slouch!” 

Surana fought to keep her expression straight. The _King_ slouched when he was relaxing. The king tended to flop, lean, and laze-about if anyone let him. He was _also_ standing half a foot from the Colonel. 

“You there! Blondie!” 

“Yes ser?” Alistair snapped immediately to attention. 

“What’s the one thing a soldier can’t do without?” 

“Discipline, ser,” Alistair reported immediately, his eyes front. The templar training and the year of being a warden really shown through. 

“Hmph. You’re not as dumb as you look. I expect you back in the baracks by sunup.” 

“Ser!” 

“Diiiiiiiismissssed!” 

Surana and the rest of the patrol spun on their heels and marched out of the office, immediately slowing to a more comfortable and slouched pace when they were out of sight. Bran and James didn’t even notice that they were leading as they made their way down the hall and out the door, Bran giving the password with a roll of his eyes and a muttered “you saw me at bleeding breakfast, you git” as soon as the door was closed behind them. 

They exited Fort Drakon, Surana and Alistair bringing up the rear. She curled her hand around his bicep, slowing their pace gradually as Bran and James bickered amongst themselves until there was a chance for her and Alistair to slip into the shadows and dart quietly down an alley. 

They stayed still, holding their breath and pressed together when they heard the shouting for them. But the shouting moved passed and Surana rested her forehead against Alistair’s chest. “We should ditch the gear,” she exhaled. “That was. . . stressful.” 

“You know, you’re the most impressive woman I’ve ever met.” Alistair told her lightly. He brushed his lips against her forehead. “I wasn’t sure we’d get out of there.” He pulled his helmet off and dropped it to the side, Surana did the same. She picked herself up on her toes and kissed him while she fought with the buckles on his armor, pulling them free and dropping his vambraces and her gauntlets and letting him unbuckle her gear. 

The kisses grew deeper. Alistair pushed her back against the wall as he undid her fauld and dropped to his knees to unhook her greaves, mouth pressed to the cloth of her simple cloth tunic. 

Things likely would have gotten out of hand if they hadn’t heard a child’s laughing shriek. Both Surana and Alistair went crimson, cough, and finished unbuckling their gear. 

“We should get to Arl Eamon’s estate.” She muttered. 

“Yeah.” Alistair agreed. He kissed her again. “I’m going to suggest we swing into the Grawed Noble and see if Bann Sighard’s son found him.” 

“We should also tell the Chantry about Irminric.”

* * *

They ran their errands and returned to the Estate by nightfall, the guards on alert giving them baffled looks but waving them through the gates when Shale, who had elected to stand outside for a while, wanting a change of scenery, threatened to crush them if they did not. 

“It’s settled then. Leliana and I will slip in amidst the guards tonight and--”

“I really don’t think that’ll be necessary, Zev,” Surana interrupted what was sure to be a clever and sneaky rescue plan. “But it’s nice to know you were thinking of us.” 

The room turned and fixed eyes on Surana and Alistair. Leliana and Zevran both seemed to deflate with relief, Morrigan even smiled. 

“Wynne’s looking after Oswyn then?” Surana asked. “I spoke with his father at the tavern.” 

“Maker’s breath,” Eamon stood and walked across the room to the both of them, his eyes paternal and worried on Alistair’s face. “It’s good to see you both in one piece.” 

“Indeed,” Anora rose from where she was sitting, hands folded lady-like in front of her and Erlina standing at her side. “We have been praying for your safe return, Warden.” 

She pointedly didn’t look at Alistair. 

“I’m glad to see you’re safe, Anora.” Surana said with a polite nod of her head. 

“I was . . . uncertain you would respond the way you did, given the consequences. Thank you.” 

“If it had just been me, it would have been a sure thing. I am _annoyed_ , however, that they took His Highness as well.” Surana shook her head as soon as the words left her mouth. “But in the end it worked out.”

“Yes,” Anora nodded. “And now we must work together and quickly. My father has gone mad. I didn’t want to believe it at first, but he is gripped by a paranoia so severe it prevents him from seeing sense.” She dropped her eyes to the floor, but it felt calculated. “He saw me as a threat, yet even now I’m certain he’s telling the nobles you are dangerous murderers that have kidnapped and mind-controlled me. He may even believe it.” 

Surana bit down on the inside of her cheek and wondered how much of _her_ Loghain knew about. If he knew she was a mage, they would likely have to worried about him screaming “maleficar” and templars weren’t known for listening to reason in that area. 

It hadn’t come up _yet_. Perhaps no one had told him. 

“Is there _any_ hope of reasoning with him?”

“I thought so.” Anora’s mask slipped half an inch, an _honest_ expression of grief, but it was immediately replaced by a face of calm demeanor and quiet sadness. Surana both admired and _hated_ that Anora’s talent for deception lay in honest emotion. “I _hoped_ so. Howe’s influence was strong, and his death can only be a good thing, but I know my father. He is committed to this course and nothing will sway him from it. You will need ammunition for the landsmeet and I can help you there.” 

“Go on.” 

“You are new to the City, you may be unaware of some recent . . . events. Denerim has been in turmoil since Ostagar, people are angry and grieving. Strangely, most of the unrest seems to be in the Alienage. Few elves accompanied the army, so whatever the source of this unrest is, my father and Howe will have had their hands in it.” 

“Helpful,” Eamon observed. “But you could have sent this information with your maid.” 

“That is true. I feared for my life with Howe, but in honesty I sent Erlina to you in hopes that we might join forces.” Anora drew herself up to her full height, towering over Surana’s head by a good five inches. “You need evidence for the Landsmeet, but you also need a stronger candidate for the throne. You need me.” 

“Alistair is Maric’s son.” Surana caught herself using Eamon’s argument. 

“I do not doubt he is biddable enough,” Anora admitted, she added “and decent” as almost an afterthought when she noticed how Surana inflated with indignation. “But even with his blood, he is no King. Do you think only I can see it? More than that, he is a Grey Warden, it will will look like you are trying to put a Grey Warden on the throne, regardless of your claims. I am a neutral party, and I am already Queen.” 

“Anora, you are _indeed_ Cailan’s widow but--”

“Who do you think ran this country for the last five years? Cailan?” Anora’s mask of gentleness dropped when she addressed Eamon. “I am the daughter of Ferelden’s greatest general. I am what this country needs, not an untested prince who doesn’t even want the throne.” She turned to look back at Surana. “I can help you stop my father. For now, I think I will retire to my rooms. Warden, I ask that you come speak with me when you have a moment. Good evening.” 

Anora left them at a sharp, but dignified pace. Eamon shook his head as Zevran pushed the door closed with his hip. “Well, she’s quite . . . spirited. I remember when Loghain first brought her to the capital.”

“Oh?” 

Eamon nodded. “Cailan was a good boy, but Anora was always two steps ahead. She had him jumping when she snapped since the first time she batted her eyelashes.” 

“Is she going to be trouble.” 

“Perhaps, but we should keep her close, all the same.” 

Surana nodded and reach up to her frazzled braid. “I have work to do then. In the morning. Goodnight my lord.” 

“Wait, Neria, I’ll head down to supper with you. Neither of us have eaten.” Alistair smiled at her and she could still taste their earlier kisses. It was a shame there wouldn’t be a chance for more, but there were eyes everywhere and too many things that needed to be done.

* * *

Zevran found her while she was eating and Alistair had left to talk with Riordan about Duncan. He sat beside her on the bench and Surana bumped his shoulder with her head. 

“Are you certain you’re alright, Neria?”

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “You?” 

“Fine. Sten had to be stopped from storming the Fort on his own to rescue you, we believe he would have roped Shale into it as well. Leliana and I had a much more intelligent plan.” 

“Morrigan?” 

“Was to provide air support. I admit I am most pleased you rescued yourself. I do not like the idea of letting Morrigan throw lightning at me from far enough away that she could claim striking me was an accident.” 

Surana laughed at that and picked at her bread. “I’m glad you’re still with us,” she admitted with a warm smile. “It’s unkind, but I worried for a moment.”

“As did I.” 

“Can I ask about him? About the whole thing?” 

Zevran looked down, a contemplative expression marring his usually cheerful features. “I suppose it is time, you have been a good friend to me, after all. There is a reason I took this mission in Ferelden, far from my home, and it had nothing to do with leaving the Crows.” He looked up and gave her a small smile. “Meeting you, after all, was quite an accident. My last mission before this one . . . did not end well.” 

“What happened?” Surana put her spoon down and turned to pay Zevran her undivided attention. 

“You must realize that until that day I was cocky and arrogant. I was the _best_ Crow in Antiva, I believed, and I bragged of my conquests often . . . both as an assassin and lover. “

“ _More_ cocky and arrogant?” She teased, trying to lighten the mood or at least ease a smile part of the way back to Zevran’s face. She touched his knee with hers to offer some sort of comfort while being unsure if he wanted or needed something else. 

He chuckled, but it wasn’t his usual chuckle. It fell short of honestly mirthful. “Indeed, I was often told I was insufferable. . . right before I fell into bed with something. So it goes.” He pressed against her knee with his. “One of the Crow masters had grown tired of my boasting. My bid for an exceptionally difficult mark was accepted, much to my surprise. A wealthy merchant with many guards, completely silent.” Zevran brought his hands together and rubbed his thumb over his index finger. “Taliesen agreed to be part of my team, as well as an elvhen lass named Rinna. She was . . . a marvel. Tough, smooth, wicked, eyes that gleamed like justices. Everything I thought I desired.” 

“Oh no,” Surana breathed. “You fell in love with her?”

“Rinna was . . . special. I thought I had closed off my heart but she . . . touched something within me. It frightened me. When Taliesin told me that Rinna had accepted a bribe from the merchant and betrayed us . . . I agreed that she had to pay the price. Rinna begged me not to. On her knees, with tears in her eyes, she told me that she loved me and had not betrayed us. I laughed in her face and said that even it if were true, I didn’t care.”

“That wasn’t true.” 

“I convinced myself it was. Taliesin cut her throat and I watched as she bled out. I . . . spat on her for betraying the Crows.” Zevran looked away. “When Taliesin and I finally assassinated the merchant we found the true source of his information. Rinna had not betrayed us after all.”

Surana wasn’t sure what to say to that. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes watered and she blinked the tears away before he could notice. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered, “I’m so sorry, Zev.” 

“I wanted to tell the Crows what we’d done, admit our mistake. Taliesin . . . convinced me not to. He said it would be a foolish waste, and so we told the Crows that Rinna died in the attempt.” Zevran scoffed. “We needn’t have bothered. The Crows knew what we had done. The master who disliked me told me so to our face. He said the Crows knew . . . and they didn’t care. And one day my turn would come.” 

“Did Taliesin know that Rinna hadn’t known?” 

“I do not believe so.” Zevran wrung his hands together. “We were lovers, the three of us. He was . . . better . . . at closing off his heart than either Rinna or I, I suppose. But that he came to collect me speaks . . . well . . . of him.” 

“I . . . I have no idea what to say.” Surana managed after a long moment of trying to find words that weren’t _and you killed him for me, you killed him for **me** , Zevran I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Zevran._

“You asked me why I wanted to leave the Crows. The truth is . . . I wanted to die. And what better way than to throw myself at one of the fabled Grey Wardens. And then . . . this happened. And here I am.” 

Surana threw her arms around him. She pressed her nose to the side of his neck. “That’s terrible, I’m so sorry and I’m so glad you’re here.” She pulled away but didn’t let go. 

Zevran gave her a weak smile and squeezed her back. “It feels good to speak of it with someone. I swore I never would.” He tugged her close and she closed her eyes, cheek resting against his shoulder. “You should know, Neria, that whatever it is I sought by leaving Antiva, I think I have found it. I owe you a great deal.” 

“I’m just glad you’re here, Zev. I’m glad you’re with me through all this.”

* * *

She knocked on Anora’s door after she and Alistair had had a light supper and she’d been given the chance to take her braid down. Erlina showed her into the room where Anora was waiting in a chair beside the bookshelves. 

“You wanted to see me, my lady?” Surana asked, careful to keep her tone neutral and on the side of pleasant. 

“I did. It’s good of you to come and speak with me.” Anora smiled. “I will be blunt,” she said. “I can see that your voice will be a strong one in the days to come. It is to you that Eamon listens and with good reason. My father must be stopped, but once that is done Ferelden will need a ruler. I would welcome your support for my throne.” 

“Why would I support you over Alistair?” Surana asked, trying to be diplomatic but sore and irritated on top of everything else. 

“You know him well enough. What do you think of Alistair’s potential to rule, never mind his willingness?”

Surana considered for a moment. “I think he’d do fine, actually. There would be bumps, but he’s far cleverer than anyone gives him credit. He’s noble and when he does lead he does so from the front. He knows people, cares about people. Everything else I believe he can and will learn, and quickly.” 

“Alistair seems like a kind, well-meaning man, as I said, biddable enough. These are admirable qualities, if not kingly ones. He _also_ seem to be a fine Grey Warden--which is why he should remain one, and serve the kingdom by defeating the darkspawn.” 

Surana wondered if Anora knew that that, right there, was the moment she’d lost any hope of support. If kindness, skill and nobility (true nobility: looking out for one’s people, uplifting and guarding the common folk) were not “kingly” qualities, then they were certainly qualities a king _should_ have. 

Moreover, if Surana could spare Alistair a death at the hands of the darkspawn, she would. Wynne was right, love was selfish. 

“A kind king who is also a phenomenal warrior? A good man with a good heart who loves his people and his nation? It sounds ideal.” 

“Certainly _some_ would follow Alistair out of respect for his Theirin blood. Others would see this as Eamon grabbing for power. Who else would Alistair turn to for help? Alistair’s weakness would destroy everything Maric built.” 

Surana’s chest swelled with indignation. “You’re wrong,” she said softly, the edge of the apostrophe lined with a knife point. 

Anora knew how to maneuver gracefully without giving any ground. She smiled, one Surana had seen too often on Leliana’s face when she was trying to play nice with Morrigan knowing that the attempt would only grind on Morrigan’s nerves. “I simply believe that I am what this nation needs. I will fight for what I believe. Would Alistair do the same?”

“He does.” 

“And thus I say again: I would welcome your support for the throne, if you would give it.” 

Surana exhaled. “May I have the evening to think about it?” 

“We must begin making plans for what will follow the Landsmeet. Immediately.” 

“If you need the answer now, it is simple: I will protect you, but my loyalty is to Ferelden and to Alistair.” 

“Ah. That’s too bad.” Anora said, her smile turned bright, almost girlish. “Maric’s boys are charming, are they not? And happiest when they have a woman to dote upon.” 

Surana’s cheeks flared red. 

“Is that why you support him? The way you speak of him, it . . . simply makes me curious.” 

_There’s the viper_ , Surana thought. _She knows my weak spot. She knows I’m his._. 

“I think he would make a better king than you believe.” Surana replied. “I believe he’s what’s best for our country _and_ for our people.” 

“Fair enough,” Anora didn’t look at all like she believed that. She sighed and relaxed her shoulders. “I’ll tell you this: my father _must_ be stopped. Once he is kept from the throne, if it should fall to Alistair, I will be content.” 

“I appreciate that,” Surana curtsied. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a very long day and I’m exhausted.” 

“Of course.”

* * *

“In Orlais, Alistair and Anora would simply marry each other, that way they would have the undisputed strongest claim to the throne,” Leliana rested her head on Surana’s lap, sitting in the room Surana and Morrigan were sharing. Morrigan looked displeased, but said nothing, her eyes fixed on her mother’s grimoire, devouring more secrets. 

“This isn’t Orlais,” Surana tugged a brush through Leliana’s short hair. “Besides, given what Eamon said, and what I’ve gleaned about Anora, she’d have him on a leash in a fortnight, maybe literally. I don’t want to see him dominated.” 

“Do you not?” Leliana gave her a wicked smile. 

“Not like that.” Surana laughed, rolling her head back. “And not outside of the--Leliana you’re _dreadful_ by the way.” She shook her head. “But no, part of our reason for putting Alistair on the throne is the continuation of the Theirin line.” She resumed brushing. “Anora’s barren.” 

“How do you know?”

“I found letters from Eamon and Cailan at Ostagar, and letters from Cailan to Empress Celene of Orlais,” Surana sighed. “Honestly, I _think_ Cailan was going to leave Anora and wed Celene, securing peace between Ferelden and Orlais and securing his bloodline _but_ it being so soon after the occupation, people would have rioted.” Surana curled forward. “It all fits with everything we’ve learned. Loghain, who hates Orlais and, from all reports before the Howe business, _dotes_ upon his daughter discovers a plot to depose her in favor of an alliance with his enemy. He leaves Cailan to die and works to secure Anora’s throne for her, but the paranoia and Howe’s venom sets in and he goes mad.” She bit down on the inside of her cheek. “It’s sad, actually.” 

“Have you told anyone else?” 

Surana shook her head. “What good would it do? Loghain deserves no pity for everything he’s done. Cailan is dead. The Blight is our biggest problem and admitting that Cailan was planning _anything_ with Celene will lose us the Bannorns because most of the Banns are old enough to have fought in the damn war. All I can do is let it affect _my_ decisions.” 

“I’d always heard that Cailan had no head for politics.” 

“I think the biggest thing he and Alistair have in common is that other people think they’re dumber than they are. Cailan knew who Alistair was, he made certain that Alistair was out of the fighting at Ostagar and I think he knew they were going to die. I think he put all these pieces into place.” She closed her eyes. “He saved my life, and I think he did it so I could save Alistair’s.” 

“Neria, if Alistair needs an heir. . .” 

“I know.” Surana said, more to herself than aloud. “I’m trying not to think about it. I’ll . . . I’ll worry about that later.”


	5. Alienated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surana explores the unrest in the Alienage and is forced to confront the racism against elves in technicolor.

She woke up to find that Morrigan had already disappeared for breakfast. Surana rolled to her back and looked up at the ceiling, sighing softly to herself. Another day, another damned crisis. Anora had suggested that they investigate the Alienage, so they would. They were running short on time, the Landsmeet was a day away. 

At least it would be over soon. One way or another, Ferelden would have a strong ruler. She tried not to think about the fact that if they _lost_ Loghain would likely have them all executed as traitors. Probably starting with Alistair. She got dressed and tried to console herself by picturing Loghain making a stupid face when he realized that it _was_ a real Blight and that that _was_ an Archdemon. Her attempt to console herself failed when she remembered that everyone thought only Grey Wardens could stop a Blight and that in that scenario all the Grey Wardens were dead. 

Not that that made any sense. Other people could kill darkspawn. The Archdemon _was_ a darkspawn. It was just . . . also a dragon. And an old Tevinter God, apparently. Difficult, yes, but surely not impossible. If there was some secret Grey Warden’s had about killing Archdemons, it had died with Duncan, or Riordan was keeping it to himself. Surana hoped it was all hype. She wasn’t sure what else she could do. 

Breakfast was small, but filling. Alistair and Riordan had been up late into the night talking about Duncan and _apparently_ Grand Enchanter Fiona who _had_ been a Grey Warden but somehow wasn’t any longer. 

Surana made a mental note to investigate that later. If Alistair was King, he couldn’t be a Warden. If there was a way to make him not a Warden, that would be good to know. Her conversation with Leliana was still echoing in her head. If they made Alistair King, he would need heirs. Surana was a mage. She wasn’t supposed to have children. She was an elf, she _certainly_ couldn’t marry the king and give him legitimate offspring and no one would accept an elf-blooded bastard. 

Her mood only darkened as they left the estate, heading for the Alienage. In the tower, elves and humans were treated alike. It didn’t matter if you had pointy ears or not because you were a mage and you had to be kept under lock and key because you were the living equivalent of lyrium fuses, dangerous and unstable. There were elvhen templars, albeit not many and they were just templars. Smaller, slighter templars, but templars all the same. 

Out here, it mattered. She was, in the eyes of the nation as a whole, _less_ than he was. She would never be seen as an acceptable choice no matter how desperately _he_ loved her. Win or Lose, she lost him when this was over.

“Neria?” 

She exhaled and put on a more cheerful face when she looked up at Alistair. “Yes?”

“I was thinking, Riordan gave me the location of the Grey Warden Vault here in Denerim. There might be things we could use.” 

“That’s a good idea,” she nodded and dropped her gaze back to the dusty street. “Is it far?” 

“Not really, end of the Market District.” He curled his hand around the crook of her elbow and jerked her gently backwards, sliding his hand into hers. “Something’s bothering you.” 

“Is it that obvious.” 

“Seeing as you almost walked into a barrel, yes.” Alistair gave her a small, worried smile. “What’s wrong?” 

Surana shook her head, reached up with her other hand to fiddle with her braid and sighed. “It’s. . . nothing we can’t discuss later. I’ll be alright.” 

He didn’t look particularly convinced, but he squeezed her fingers in his and seemed willing enough to let the conversation drop. He directed the party to a warehouse, where he produced a key and lead them through the cluttered building to a discreet looking bookshelf that moved when he nudged it, revealing a door. 

Surana tugged excitement around her like a cloak and wandered off by herself to peruse a weapons rack near a stack of old books. A name caught her eye, a small, weathered note tucked into the strap of a griffon-emblazoned shield. _Property of Warden Commander Duncan_. 

Duncan had used a longsword and a dagger, Surana recalled. Perhaps it was ceremonial. She hefted it from where it sat and hunted through the boxes and shelves until she found Alistair. “Here,” she raised it up for him to see. “I suspect he would have wanted you to have this.” 

Alistair dropped the helmet he was holding, barely noticing the crash as he reached to take it from her. “This . . . this shield. This is Duncan’s isn’t it? That’s his crest.”

She smiled up at him. “Well, you said you wanted something to remember him by.” 

“I did. I really did. Truly I,” Alistair’s hand traced over the griffon on the shield’s face. “I forgot that his shield wasn’t with him. That it was here. I thought--this is, this is perfect.” He looked up from the shield to her, cedar eyes bright with a hint of moisture around their edges. Surana’s smile warmed and for a moment she forgot that there couldn’t be a _them_ between them. She reached up and brushed the trace of tears away. 

“I don’t know how to express my gratitude. This means a great deal to me.” 

“I’m delighted.” 

“I’ll treasure this,” he pressed his mouth to her forehead. “Thank you, love.” 

Surana’s ears burned. “It’s not--he would have wanted you to have it anyway. Probably. Let’s . . . yes. Go.”

* * *

Zevran chuckled at her all the way to the Alienage gates. His bemusement petered off considerably as her expression changed from one of annoyance with _him_ to horror and disgust. The Alienage was filthy, even by the standards she’d come to expect from hearing about them. It stank of disease and sewage, the corpses of animals lay decaying in the sun.

She took grim comfort in the thought that it didn’t smell _quite_ as bad as the Darkspawn nest they’d found near Bownammar. But that wasn’t _enough_ of a comfort to keep her from wanting to vomit. 

A notice, stuck to the side of a building that still had blood on its doorstep, let her know that carrying arms was prohibited. “Elves who have swords will die upon them,” she read aloud, looking over to Zevran who quickly tucked his knives out of sight. 

“What about your staff, Neria?” 

Surana looked at the glittering jewel that crowned her focus and sighed. She took a knife and cut the fastenings, tucking the gem into a pocket and holding onto what was now a gnarled stick. “Stanton,” she whistled. “Chew this.” 

Stanton happily obliged and when he finished it was as ugly a walking stick as any had seen. “I’ll just pretend to need it if it comes up.” 

“Clever,” Alistair admitted. “Someone might see through it, of course.” 

“I’ll deal with that when it happens, but after what Anora said about Loghain being behind the unrest here, I’m hesitant to give up my weapon.” 

They walked deeper into the Alienage and Surana felt a small, hateful glimmer of gratitude that she’d grown up in the Circle. It had been a cage, and one she was grateful to be free of, but it had been clean, she had been educated, she had been _fed_. This place was terrible. 

They walked with the intention of asking for information, but all the houses they passed were either empty or shuttered tight. Surana chewed on this inside of her cheek, a sense of hopelessness as despair growing stronger the further they went. A templar, his gleaming armor setting him apart, beckoned for their attention and, gripping her staff tight, Surana obliged. 

“Ho there, Child.” He said, empty grey eyes staring past her. “Maker’s blessing be on you.” He was blind, Surana realized as his eyes remained empty, staring just to the left of her face at the thin air. “I wonder if I might impose upon you for help.”

“What do you need?” 

“I heard rumor of an enclave of maleficarum here in the Alienage.” 

Surana’s stomach sank. 

“And while I’ve found no evidence of Maleficars, there is something amiss here. A despair that runs deep into the ground. Though it’s taken patience, I’ve listened and the elves have opened up to me. Alas, ears have done all they can. You seem competent, would you be my eyes.” 

“How did you lose your sight?” 

“I appreciate your candor--most stare. I’m Ser Otto of the Templar Order. I lost my sight in battle with a Maleficar. He summoned fire from thin air and burned my face, the scars have recovered, my sight will not.” 

“What do you need us to do?” They were here to help, after all, and Ser Otto was blind. If she was careful, she could help without revealing her talents. 

“Merely look around for anything out of place.” Ser Otto said. “And report to me what you find.” 

“Sure.” 

As they left Ser Otto to his work, whatever that might have been, Morrigan swept up to Surana’s side. “Are you quite certain?” she asked in a low voice. “That man is a templar. ‘Twould it not have been better to leave him to his investigations?” 

“Probably,” Surana conceded. “But we’re here to settle whatever unrest there is here and after the _Jowan_ fiasco I wouldn’t put it past Loghain to employ blood mages. I just wish I knew _why_.”

“And when the templar discovers what we are?” 

“We play it careful and if worse comes to worse we stun him and run. He’s blind, Morrigan, I think between the lot of us we’ll be okay.” 

Their poking around lead them to the Orphanage, a broken in, burned out husk of a building. The blood outside it was still wet, as though fresh and rabid dogs patrolled the outside, growling and howling at nothing. A woman, her expression white and wide chattered about an amulet and bad men. When Surana had her friends returned to Otto, he took off almost immediately, saying that the Orphanage had been hit badly during the riots. It had been stormed by angry, vengeful humans and a number of elvhen children slaughtered while the rest fled. Surana jogged after him and explained to the rest of her party that places like that attracted demons, the veil weakened and weird things would happen. 

She chased Otto inside and hoped that he wouldn’t react badly to her gifts if they saved his life. “Blind fool of a templar, charging off like demon bait,” she muttered under her breath as the orphanage door slammed closed behind her. “Andraste’s ass. What is he--” she spotted Ser Otto, “What are _you_ thinking?” 

Ser Otto didn’t answer, instead listening intently for the sounds the house was making. Children giggled. Dogs barked. Someone shouted angrily. 

Surana exhaled. “Everyone, stay close. Morrigan, Wynne, Alistair, this fight is going to be _mostly_ on us.” 

“This is the right place,” Ser Otto confirmed. “The feeling is . . . intense here. I do not know if this is the work of Maleficarum or--”

“Feels like demons,” Surana interrupted. “Stay near the back. Kadan,” she turned and gave him an apologetic smile. “Stick with Ser Otto. I’ll get us out of here soon.” 

Sten snorted. 

They proceeded carefully, dealing with the ghosts as they came across them, watching the horrible events of the riot unfold. Surana steeled her heart and stomach, grateful that Leliana had been able to do the same. It was a reflection. It was long since over. The riots had been months and months ago, shortly after the battle for Ostagar was lost. There was nothing to be done but lay the spirits to rest. 

In some ways, the demons and shades were easier to fight. Unlike the ghosts which had be dealt with by magical means, the demons were molten, but physical. Sten lobbed off the head of a rage demon and Morrigan froze it solid as it rolled to her feet, allowing Shale to shatter it with a well placed stomp. They left the orphanage and entered the building adjacent, built so close that they shared a wall and defeated the demon there. 

Ser Otto, amazed that they’d won, turned to congratulate them. Surana let out a scream as a spear slammed through his chest and the demon appeared, done with its puppets and illusions. The demon, in its true glory, was a tough fight, but it was hopelessly outnumbered and rage demons, while powerful, were rarely _clever_. Surana tended the wounded when it was dead and the miasma it left behind started to clear. 

“You did well, Ser Otto,” she bent over the templar’s bloody body and closed his empty eyes with her hand. “Andraste guide you. _Draw your last breath, my friends. Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be Forgiven._ ” Fire bubbled out of her hand and engulfed Ser Otto’s corpse. She straightened and picked up the charred worn amulet that clearly belonged the mad woman outside babbling about bad men and exhaled. “I’ll write the Denerim Chantry, rather than explain things myself.” She rolled her shoulders back. “Let’s figure out what _else_ is wrong here and just go home.”

* * *

Out the back of the Orphanage it was easy enough to follow angry, shouting voices to the center of the Alienage where what seemed like every elf in the city was crowded, angry and scared in front of a larger building guarded by a handful of human men, two of which were clearly mages, judging by their staves. 

Surana looked at Wynne, Shale, Sten and Ogrhen and nodded towards one side of the crowd, then at Morrigan, Leliana, Zevran and Stanton to take the other side, forming a wide wedge with her at the center. 

A single elvhen woman was arguing with the entire crowd, claiming that there wasn’t a plague, if there _was_ a plague that standing around in a group would only make things worse and that if the Tevinters (Tevinters? In Denerim?) were really trying to help than at least _some one_ would have come back. 

Surana walked up to her, gathering from the annoyed shouts of a man in the crowd that her name was _Shianni_ and that she was rather unpopular for having told everyone to go home, repeatedly. 

Surana gave her a weak attempt at a sympathetic smile as she walked over. “Something the matter? Can I help?” 

“You must not be from around here.” Shianni shook her head and then let her eyes linger on Surana’s braid. “Wait, my cousin Soris mentioned you. You saved him from the dungeon, didn’t you.” 

Surana nodded. There had only been the one elf in Howe’s dungeon, it stood to reason that it was the same man. 

“These foreigners _say_ they’re here to help with our outbreak of plague, but everyone they “help” disappears.” 

“That’s not true, Shianni and you know it!” An angry woman shouted. “Both my sisters got the Tevinter spell cast on them and they’re fine.” 

“Where’s your niece then?” Shianni snapped back. “And my Uncle Cyrion. And Valendrian?” 

“There’s magic being used here?” Surana raised her eyebrows in surprise. “And the Chantry isn’t riding in with their jackboots on?” 

She earned a small glare from Leliana for that. 

“These mages say they’re from a Circle, just the Tevinter one. I don’t know if they’re telling the truth or if anyone cares.” Shianni dropped her arms to her sides and chewed on her lower lip. “Over the last few weeks they’ve taken dozens of elves into that house and none of them have been seen again. One of them was our ha’hren, Valendrian. And I don’t know what we’re going to do if we don’t get him back.” 

“Ha’hren?” 

“Our elder.” 

“Ah.” Surana nodded and thought about the chaos that would have been caused if Irving were suddenly gone. Though the Circle was _probably_ (if mostly by force) better organized than a neighborhood of supposedly free elves. “Well, I’ll go talk to them and see if I can learn anything.” 

“You can try, those guards mean business.” 

Surana gave Shianni what she meant to be a confident smile and then looked over, making eye contact with Alistair and then with Sten before she made her way up to the door where the guards were standing, glaring at the crowd while the “healer” at the front attempted to look benevolent and saintly. The expression would have worked better on a crocodile. 

Surana cleared her throat and pushed to the front of the throng. 

“Excuse me I--”

“Hessarian’s Mercy!” The healer interrupted her. “How long have you been ill, woman? You should have come here days ago.” 

Surana blanched immediately and then a new plan started to roll about in her mind. She coughed, not a _good_ fake cough, but a cough, and muttered a weak “help me.” 

She thought she heard Alistair shout as the healers gestured for everyone else to stand back, the guards coming up to hold the line while Surana was ushered inside. 

Inside was notably _not_ a medical ward. She could smell sickness and feel the blight, but it was faint, very faint. She looked around at what was clearly a business operation and realized the flaw in her plan: her companions were outside and it was likely to be her against the group of armed men or else she was going to be locked up. 

_Fuck._

She kept the distress from her face as best she could and let the guard who took her arm with surprising and practiced grace lie about getting her information and everything as he lead her over to a table. 

A harried looking supervisor looked up from his paperwork. “What’s this?”

“Got another one.” 

“Is that--wait a minute. That’s the one the regent’s looking for. The Grey Warden.” 

“Fuck.” Surana said aloud this time, letting lightning crackle in her fingers and hoping her friends were close enough to the door to hear the fighting. 

“Five Sovereigns to the one who brings down the Warden.” 

Surana ripped her arm out of the guard’s grasp and dropped to kneeling, slamming her staff on the floor as she brought her left hand to her temple and threw a mind blast that echoed and stunned the guards. The brief moment of stillness she abused by sweeping out with her staff, catching the supervisor behind the right knee and knocking him forward into the guard that had held her. 

An arrow caught her in the arm. 

She dropped a barrier and followed it up with a fireball, rapidly coming to the realization that there were too many of them. She screamed and caught another arrow, this time in her leg. The archer responsible was introduced to an ice bolt that lodged itself in his throat. 

Bleeding badly, Surana cast heal on herself a moment before she felt a weak area cleanse snap into place. Surana hit the ground and spat up bile as the door splintered open and her companions burst in, bloodied and shouting. The remaining Tevinter guards were dispatched with ease as Surana threw up. 

Alistair was covered in someone else’s blood and Surana watched as anger evaporated from his features when he knelt to help her back to standing. Wynne helped her pluck the arrows out and heal the wounds. 

“That was foolish, Kadan.” Sten chided. 

“I agree,” she nodded and spat in a corner. “But they’re not simple healers, at least we know that much.” 

“Unacceptably foolish.” 

Surana nodded again, not really able to defend herself because it was true, and rubbed the bruises on her arms and legs where the arrows had been. They followed more shouting to a small side room and found cages and some of the quarantined elves, all of which shouted that they were perfectly healthy. Leliana and Zevran picked the locks while one explained that Valendrian had already been taken away, smuggled out the back with a number of the other elves. 

The rescued elves ran out the front while Surana and her companions headed through the back.

* * *

The trail the tevinters left out the back lead them into a run down apartment complex, not that there were any buildings in the Alienage Surana _couldn’t_ have described as “run down”. She hung near the back, badly bruised from her foolishness earlier and wanting to be clear of Alistair’s next area cleanse. They had already dealt with two mages and more seemed likely. 

The elves in the apartments were quieter than mice, their presence only noticeable because she heard breathy “sssh!”es and the occasional locking bolt sliding into place. “This whole place is afraid,” Surana said under her breath. “A whole neighborhood, terrified.” 

“Between the plague and whatever these Tevinters are doing, that is hardly a surprise,” Leliana said softly. “We should hurry.” 

“I agree.” 

In the alley outside the complex they were stopped by a guard. He held up a hand, eyes sliding over Zevran and Surana before they fixed on Alistair, the man in front. “Another shipment already, we weren’t expecting--Wait. You’re no Tevinter. Who are you supposed to be?” 

“I’m--”

“We’re here to relieve you,” Leliana cut Alistair off, batting her pretty eyelashes. “Weren’t you told?” 

“What?” The guard’s eyebrows wrinkled together. “No you’re not. There’s no one relieving us until midnight. Get the--” 

He gurgled the rest past the blood welling up under Zevran’s knife as the slight elvhen assassin parted his throat. “It was a valiant try, Leliana. You are so beautiful when you’re devious.” 

Leliana rolled her eyes and fired an arrow over Zevran’s shoulder into the face of the man charging at them. The guard patrol was dispatched quickly enough. 

“Shipment?” Surana shook the sparks from her fingers. “So, slavers?” 

“It seems likely.” 

“What the _void_ are slavers doing in bloody _Ferelden_?” she demanded. “There’s no slavery in Southern Thedas, it violates Chantry and National law. And this isn’t just a small, personal operation, given the numbers we’ve heard about. How are they able to maintain a foothold?” 

“I suspect that’s what Anora meant by Loghain being behind the Alienage’s misfortune.” Wynne said, leaning heavily on her staff.

“He’s . . . it’s. . .” Surana huffed. “Let’s go put an end to it. I’ll be so much _happier_ after this bloody, Maker-damned Landsmeet is over and he’s no longer a problem.” 

They broke into the warehouse the guards had been positioned outside of and stopped abruptly when they turned a corner and found a number of arrows pointed at them. An elvhen woman in tevinter leathers stood at the center of the lethal half-circle, her left hand raised open palmed into the air to give the order to fire and her expression annoyed. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “We were told that there would be no interference from the authorities.” 

“We’re looking for the elves you’ve brought through here.” Surana snapped. “They’re Ferelden citizens and we demand their release.” 

“You’ll regret this,” the elvhen woman replied, her hand still in the air. “Believe it or not, we’ve been given dispensation to do our business here. The humans talk a great deal about how _wrong_ slavery is, but isn’t it funny how quickly the smell o f gold overcomes such ideals?” 

Surana clenched her jaw. Loghain and Howe had sold _Ferelden Citizens_ into _slavery_. She prepared to drop a barrier over the party, hoping that Wynne or Morrigan was on top of things as well in case she wasn’t fast enough. “I intend to shut you down even so.” 

“And _I_ intend to see you pay for the damage you’ve already done. In blood.” The slaver’s fist curled closed and Surana slammed the barrier into place, not fast enough to keep an arrow from bouncing off of Shale’s stony-skin, barely missing Oghren. Shale roared its disapproval and slammed one massive foot into the warehouse floor, knocking three archers over. “Use Shale for cover if you need!” Surana shouted. “Morrigan, offense! Wynne, keep that barrier up!” 

Surana grabbed Alistair, Sten and Leliana and started for the far door, trying to get a running start towards where the slaves would be unloaded and prevent any more elves from being shipped away to Tevinter. The others would have to catch up, but she was confident that they would be close on her heels. 

They burst through a trap filled hallway, spared only by Surana’s barrier and Leliana’s perceptions, and into a wide room where the slavers had set up a staging area to move elves unseen from the Alienage to the docks. 

The slaver in charge was a soft spoken mage who looked up from the staging area with an air of impressed irritation. “I am Caladrius,” he introduced himself. “And you, I assume, must be the Grey Wardens I’ve heard so much about.” 

“Skip to the end,” Surana grumbled. “What do you want?” 

“What I _want_ ,” Caladrius said in the unendingly patient tone of a man trying to sooth the ruffled feathers of someone who was _less_ than he was, “is for my business here to be concluded smoothly. If that required that you and I come to some terms, then so be it.” 

Everything about the way he addressed her bothered her. “You have been kidnapping Ferelden citizens with the intent to enslave them,” she said, her voice equally patronizing. “I am far more interested in simply killing you.” 

“Are you certain you wish to commit such rash action, Grey Warden? Look around you. Surele we can reach some kind of . . . compromise?” He gestured to the armed guards on either side of him. 

But to gesture he had to loosen his grip on his staff. Surana remembered what Rupert had told her about the Imperial Circles. They didn’t have proper templars, they didn’t know how to cope with a cleanse or a smite. She looked up at Alistair. 

“Get him.” 

The room exploded into chaos and likely would have gone very badly if Alistair’s smite hadn’t rendered Caladrius vomiting and dizzy enough that his staff could be kicked away and the other half of the party hadn’t broken through the door a mere moment afterwards. They still came out of it injured. Surana helped Sten back to his feet while Wynne handed Oghren a flask to distract him while she dug an arrow head out of his elbow where the armor parted, muttering prayers that it hadn’t severed anything and was easy enough to heal. 

Leliana and Zevran unlocked the cages while Surana knelt over Caladrius’s corpse and found documents, signed by Loghain, allowing the Slavers the right to ply their trade in the Alienage. 

She read over it twice, hands shaking. “They’re-- _we’re_ \--not even people to him, are we?” she muttered. 

Zevran appeared at her side and let his eyes roll lazily over the documents. “Sadly, such will be the case for much of the nobility.” He brushed half her bangs back over one long, pointed ear. “You are still getting used to it, are you not?” 

Surana nodded and tucked the papers away. 

“In the Tower we were just mages. Out here . . . the ears matter.” 

Alistair set his hand on her shoulder. “Not to me.” 

A old elf, his long white hair braided back, made his way over to them, limping but refusing the assistance of the younger elf who walked along side him. “An elf with no chains, well, that’s unexpected.” He didn’t smile, merely looked at her with an expression of acceptance. “Are you one of them? What happens to us now?”

“Are you Valedrian?” Surana asked, turning to face him without dislodging Alistair’s hand. “A woman named Shianni was looking for you.” 

“Shianni?” Valedrian’s eyes brightened and he smiled, allowing his weight to relax and the younger elf to swoop under his arm to help hold him up. “Did she send you here then?” 

“More or less,” Surana shrugged, “I came to investigate the unrest in the Alienage, in the name of the true king and sort of stumbled across her.” 

“Thank the Creators,” Valedrian shook his head. “Thank the _Maker_. We won’t trespass on your good graces too long then. Come along everyone. Home.” 

Surana and her companions followed the elves back the way they came, acting as an escort in case there were more slavers about who might have taken umbrage with them, but it was an easy, if slow, walk back, the numbers of elves dribbling down as they separated to go their own ways home. 

They walked with Valedrian all the way back to the center of the Alienage where the tree was growing. He asked them about Duncan, to Surana’s surprise and she let Alistair answer, lingering back to treat wounds with Wynne, grateful that the elves seemed to have a looser care about chantry law in regards to magic when they were injured. Shianni darted up to them as they reached Valedrian’s shack and almost knocked him over in her enthusiasm before she nearly crumpled to discover that her uncle Cyrion had already been taken. She turned mournfully to Surana and apologized for her earlier manners, smiling a little more strongly when Surana waved her hands and awkwardly explained that manners were for people not going through the sort of crisis Shianni had just seen and not to worry about it. 

The Alienage seemed to be slowly returning to normal the moment Valedrian was inside. News traveled quickly through the elves and people waved and shouted their appreciation as Surana and her party headed out of the bounds of the Alienage back towards Eamon’s estate. 

The sun was beginning to sink. Surana swallowed. “Tomorrow,” she breathed. “The Landsmeet is _fucking_ tomorrow.” 

“We should all rest before then,” Wynne urged. “Particularly you, Ogrhen,” she turned to eye the dwarf. “Let that elbow rest.”

“Nug humping sodding nursemaid.”


	6. And You Will Be King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Landsmeet is resolved and Alistair and Surana discuss the future of their infatuation. Sad masturbation porn at the end.

Eamon had, of course, been interested in what had happened in the Alienage. He was outraged and shocked to discover that Loghain had been selling Ferelden citizens into slavery, and concerned to hear about the plague. Unfortunately, Surana noticed, he agreed with Zevran’s surmation that many of the Banns would be _more_ concerned with the plague and that that was something Loghain could twist in his favor. It would be better, politically, to focus on issues that the Bannorn had personal stake in. 

Surana kept her tongue civil when it wasn’t behind her teeth and excused herself from dinner early. She meandered around the estate and into Eamon’s private library where she could read in peace until she needed to sleep. She lost herself in a wildly exaggerated biography of King Calenhad and hoped that he’d have been pleased that she was trying to restore his line to the throne. 

“Neria?” 

“Alistair?” She looked up and twisted in her chair to face him. “Shouldn’t you be running over speeches with Eamon?” 

Alistair gave a small snort and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m not likely to be giving most of them. Loghain’s probably convinced them all, correctly, actually, that you’re the brains of this affair and they’ll be talking to you, mostly.” 

Surana’s stomach twisted. “Should _I_ be running over speeches with Eamon?” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “Leliana says we don’t want to sound too rehearsed and she knows politics.” 

“True.” Surana set her book down and eased out of her chair. “So, what’s bothering you?”

“Someone must have told Anora I’m planning to steal her throne. She has a nasty glare.” Alistair sighed. “She wants to be Queen, I get it. I don’t trust her anymore than her father, but I get it.” 

“Is she bothering you or is it something else?” 

“It’s everything.” He took her hands in his and traced her knuckles with the pads of his thumbs. “They’re right, I’m not ready to be King. We don’t even know if I’ll be a _good_ king. The idea’s growing on me but--” 

Surana took a step into him. The door was closed, they were alone. She came up on her toes and kissed him once. “Alistair?” 

“Mm?” He rocked back to keep from kissing her again, letting her talk instead. 

“You’ll be a fine King.”

He chuckled and leaned in to nip at her lower lip. “Says you. I’m full of surprises.”

Maker, she imagined he _was_. She rocked into him automatically, as though trying to encourage him to demonstrate by taking her then and there, possibly on the chair she’d abandoned. 

She swallowed hard and dropped her gaze away, unable to tell herself that there would be time _later_ because there probably wouldn’t be but at least able to focus on the fact that the time wasn’t _now_. 

“The transition will be rocky but I’ve never read about a transition that wasn’t in some ways. You’re a good man. I have faith in you.” She rested her head against his chest and relaxed when he folded his arms around her. “You’re what Ferelden needs.” 

“So are you,” he said quietly, breath tickling the tip of her ear. “I love you, Neria. I’m just grateful you’re you and not . . . some other Grey Warden.” 

She looked up at him and felt her heart splinter. “I love you too,” she promised and kissed him again. “Go rest. Tomorrow is going to be rougher than either of us want it to be.” 

Alistair squeezed her tight again and chuckled. “Yes ma’am.”

* * *

They _paraded_ to the palace, all dressed in fine silks and polished armor. She was grateful that, since it was just across down, her “riding” was done on the carriage, close enough to Alistair’s horse to drop a barrier on him if it looked like trouble. She felt a sense of relief when they reached the palace gates and no one had shot at them, relief quickly dashed as she remembered the trials that lay inside. 

_You all stood up to The Guardian at the Temple_ , she reminded herself, steeling her will and letting go of her long red braid. _Loghain isn’t half as mighty as a spirit of literal doubt. Have faith._

They were waylaid in the antechamber by Ser Cauthrien and Surana couldn’t bring herself to be surprised. 

“Warden,”

“Neria,” Surana insisted, “seeing as we’ve met before.” 

“I am not surprised it has come to this,” Ser Cauthrien refused to let herself be derailed. “And Alistair, if you were remotely worthy of being called Maric’s son, you would already be _in_ the Landsmeet, wouldn’t you? You have torn this nation apart to oppose the very man who ensured that you were born into freedom. But you will not defile the Landsmeet. The nobles of Ferelden will confirm my lord as regent and we can finally put this to rest.” Cauthrien’s hand moved for her sword. “Once you are gone.” 

Her loyalty was as touching as it was misplaced and aggravating. Surana put a hand up to keep her party from attacking and then set it on Stanton’s head to soothe his snarls. “Ser Cauthrien,” she hoped her voice carried, clear and collected the way Leliana had tried to teach her. “Do you really not see what your Lord has done? What he’s become?” 

“I . . .” Cauthrien’s hand wavered. “I’ve had so many doubts of late. Loghain is a _great_ man, but his hatred of Orlais has driven him to madness. He has done terrible things, I know it, but . . . I owe him everything. I cannot betray him, do not ask me too!” 

Surana shook her head and took a small step forward. “I won’t. All I’m asking is that you let me stop him. It’s the only way to end this.” 

A long moment passed between them, but Cauthrien lowered her gaze and then her hand, and then dropped to kneeling. “I never thought duty would taste so bitter. Stop him, Warden. Stop him from betraying everything he loved. Please, I beg you show him mercy. Without Loghain there would be no Ferelden to defend.” 

Surana looked at Alistair and back at Cauthrien. “I will be as merciful as justice and Loghain himself will allow.” 

They continued into the Landsmeet, Surana feeling like she’d passed the first of several trials. She kept her head up, and hoped that when they looked at her they would see a warden, not an elf, and that more importantly they would look past her and see a King. 

He certainly looked the part. Shining gold armor, tall and strapping, his chin up, determined but not arrogant. Stanton at his side probably didn’t hurt anything, the mabari was as regal as any and had shoved his head under Alistair’s hand, demanding scratches. 

Eamon was in the middle of an impassioned speech, pacing back and forth and calling on the Landsmeet to see Loghain as a power grasping lunatic bent on sacrificing everything that made Ferelden _Ferelden_ in the name of saving it. The nation was a proud on, birthplace of Blessed Andraste and ruled by the blood of Calenhad himself. No Bann, Arl,Terynir or King was above the law, no regent could impose new laws without the Landsmeet behind him. No man could demand that others give up their rights and bow solely to him. Loghain was guilty of treason, of regicide and of trying to kill the last of Calenhad’s bloodline. 

It was a good speech. 

Surana wasn’t surprised when Loghain interrupted it with a slow clap that screamed of pomposity and accused him of trying to put a puppet on the throne. The crowd parted and Loghain shouted with triumph and pointed directly at _her_. “Ah! The Puppeteer!” 

Surana stared at him. 

“Tell us, Warden: how _will_ the Orlesian’s take our land? Will they even _deign_ to send troops or will they simply issue their commands through this would be prince?” He motioned and guards moved in to either side, ready to pounce on them at his word. Surana regretted immediately that they’d come mostly unarmed. “How much Ferelden blood does Orlesian gold buy these days?” 

Surana sighed and tried to look more put upon than confused. She’d never been accused of being Orlesian before. “Loghain, the Maker-Damned _Blight_ is the threat. _Not_ some imagined invasion from Orlais.” She spoke loudly voice echoing around the room, the lack of an accent obvious to anyone with ears. She was _not_ Orlesian. 

“There are enough refugees in my Bannorn to make that abundantly clear,” a woman from the balcony shouted. 

“The South has fallen, Loghain!” Another Bann added his voice. “Would you let the nation fall for fear of Orlais?” 

“The Blight is _indeed_ a threat,” Loghain conceded, “but do we really need Grey Wardens to fight it? They claim that they alone can stop the Blight, but they failed spectacularly at Ostagar _and_ requested that they bring four _legions_ of Chevaliers into Ferelden. Once we open our borders to the Chevaliers, can we really expect them to simply return to whence they came?” 

_Maker preserve me, he really_ is _mad_ , Surana thought. She cleared her throat and held her head up. If it was for some reason _her_ job to talk them through the Landsmeet, she would do it. At least it made more sense the the Orzammar Assembly and no one was asking her to find dead people. “Speaking of returning to where they came from, where is Arl Howe? Have you told the Landsmeet about your boon companions torture dungeons? That you _allowed_ him to lock up those you considered inconvenient?” She looked up onto the balcony and found Bann Sighard, his son Oswyn leaning heavily on a cane beside him. 

She nodded. 

“It’s true!” Sighard choked up but his voice carried still. “The Warden rescued my son. The things done to him . . . some are beyond a healer's skill!” 

“Arl Howe was responsible for himself!” Loghain roared, silencing the other voices in the hall. “He will answer to the Maker for whatever crimes he committed in life, as must we all.” He raised his chin like a challenge. “But you knew that. You’re the one who murdered him after all. Whatever Howe may have done he should have been brought before the seneschal. There is no justice in butchering a man in his home!” 

Surana met Loghain’s gaze with ease and knew that she’d won. She’d cornered him. “Really?” She let her eyes widen with surprise. “Is that what you told the blood mage you sent to poison Arl Eamon? Your men took him from the templars. I found Ser Irminric in Howe’s dungeon. There on _your_ order, it would seem.”

“Nonsense! If I were going to do any such thing I would have sent my own soldiers! I would not rely on the discretion of an apostate.” 

“Ser Irminric is my brother!” Bann Alfstanna’s rage bit through the noise. “He tells a _different_ story. That your soldiers snatched a maleficar from the Chantry’s justice! Coincidence?” 

“Teryn Loghain,” the Grand Cleric was an old woman but she had a glare of flint. “Interfering in a Templars sacred duty is an offense to the Maker. The Chantry will _not_ overlook it.” 

Feeling grateful to a cleric was a new feeling for Surana, and one she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. 

“Whatever I have done I will answer for later,” Loghain snarled, turning his attention back to Surana. He towered over her, drawing himself to his full height and she, a piddly five-feet tall, was quite certain it would have worked if she hadn’t been so thoroughly certain that the avalanche of evidence was enough to knock him cleanly off his throne. “At the moment, however, I wish to know that this Warden has done with my daughter.” 

“I rescued her from Arl Howe’s estate,” Surana said, crossing her arms. “She’s the one person I think Howe might have held without your permission, but I’m not sure.”

“How dare you! This warden took my daughter--our _queen_ \--by force and slaughtered her guards! What arts did you employ to keep her! Does she even still live?” 

“I believe I can speak for myself.” Anora said. There was a collective gasp and Surana leaned to one side to look around Loghain as Anora walked into the hall from behind him. 

The confidence she had so carefully cultivated started to ebb away. Anora was as ambitious as she was clever and beautiful. Surana had declined to support her. Damned. 

“Lords and Ladies, hear me. This elf has slandered and defamed Ferelden’s greatest hero in a bid to put an imposter on Maric’s throne.” 

“This elf really did hope that saving you wasn’t going to bit me in the ass,” Surana grumbled. They had a pile of evidence and Anora lived. “But I suppose I would rather you were alive and causing me trouble than dead and on my conscience.” 

“Though no one is sure why,” Zevran muttered under his breath. 

Anora and Loghain gave admittedly impressive speeches about honor and duty, about knowing that Anora was fit to rule and that Loghain was fit to lead her armies. Surana bit down on the inside of her cheek as they ragged on Alistair as being a bastard with no leadership skills. It confirmed what she had suspected, however, that Anora and Loghain had largely been in league, or at least in league _enough_. Loghain had learned that Cailan was going to leave his daughter for an Orlesian Empress and the fear of losing his greatest love to his greatest hate had driven him made. 

The call for the vote went up, a landslide victory in Alistair’s favor. 

Surana turned to address the ex-regent. “The Landsmeet is against you, Loghain. Step down with grace.” 

“Traitors!” Loghain spat, going red in the face. “How many of you stood against the Orlesian Emperor when he flattened your lands and raped your wives?! You! Eamon,” he turned and pointed an accusatory finger at the Arl, “you fought at my side once! You cared about this land! Before you got too old and fat and content to see what you risk! At home with your Orlesian harlot! None of you have bled for this land the way I have. None of you are fit to judge me.” 

Alistair interrupted, to Surana’s surprise. He stepped forward, shoulders back and spine straight. “Call off your guards, Loghain. If you want to do this the old fashioned way we can.” He turned to look up at Eamon. “Bring me my armor, my sword and my shield. The Landsmeet has spoken, but if required, I will fight for my throne.” 

Surana’s knees went a little weak. _My King_.

Loghain actually smiled a little at that, meeting eyes with Alistair for the first time and seeming to see some of his old friend there. “I suppose we both knew it would come to this. _A man is made by the quality of his enemies,_ ” his eyes dropped away. “Maric told me that, I wonder if it’s more a compliment to me or to you.” He looked up to the balconies, bout of madness temporarily cleared. “What are the terms of the duel?”

“It will be fought according to tradition: single combat until one opponent yields and we assembled will bide by the outcome.” 

Loghain nodded and turned to get his armor. 

The hall was cleared for the duel while Loghain and Alistair got their gear on. Surana watched from Alistair’s side as the rugs were rolled away to keep them from being bled on. 

“Alistair, are you sure?” she muttered. “Loghain’s famous.” 

“He’s old,” Morrigan scoffed. Surana tried to believe that Morrigan was trying to be comforting, rather than trying to lull Alistair into a sense of security so he’d get himself killed. It was a fifty-fifty chance, considering that Morrigan _probably_ disliked Loghain more than she disliked Alistair, if less personally. 

“She’s right,” Zevran nodded. “Though I would caution against unnecessary risks.” 

“I know.” Alistair tightened his vambrace and stood. “Neria?” 

“Yes?”

“Can I borrow your ribbon? For luck?” 

She nodded, grinned a little and untied it from her hair and onto his armor. Then she picked herself up on her toes and kissed his cheek, trusting Shale’s size to hide the motion from the crowd. “If you die I’ll never forgive you.” 

Alistair smiled at her and marched to the center of the hall to face Loghain. 

They circled one another, Alistair’s shield positioned defensively. Loghain was the more experienced, but he was older, slower, and Alistair had been well trained and was in his prime. It was over more quickly than she had dared to hope. Loghain’s weapon fell out of his hand and he smiled. “It would seem there’s some of Maric in you afterall.” 

“Forget Maric,” Alistair growled, “This is for Duncan.” It was a clean stroke, and to his credit, Loghain didn’t flinch when the sword severed his head from his neck and rolled to land at Anora’s feet. Anora screamed and dropped to her knees, lifting the head and cradling it to her. 

“It is decided,” Eamon sounded unreasonably calm about everything that had just happened. “Alistair will ascend to his father’s throne.” 

Alistair straightened. “I accept this decision, and will rule if the Landsmeet will have me.” 

Cheers went up, almost drowning out Anora’s wailing. It was . . . cruel, Surana thought. It was unspeakably cruel. 

“Anora,” Eamon turned to address the grieving Queen. A woman in her thirtieth year weeping over her father’s head. “You must swear fealty to Alistair and relinquish your claim on the throne for you and for your heirs.” 

Anora dried her eyes with her wrist and looked up. “If you think I will swear that oath, Eamon, you know nothing of me.” 

“Anora, be reasonable,” Surana said, hating herself for it. She had no call to ask anyone to be reasonable while they were cradling the head of their only living relative. “At least take a little time to think.” 

“Reason clearly had nothing to do with _your_ decision, Warden.” Anora spat. 

Eamon sighed. “We can not leave the nation is a state of civil war. If she will not swear fealty and renounce her claim, something must be done about her.” 

Alistair nodded. “Lock her in the tower for now. If I fall against the Blight, she can have her throne. If I don’t, I’ll deal with her later, when this is all said and done.” 

“You would give me a chance for the throne,” Anora’s grip on Loghain’s head tightened to keep her from dropping it in surprise. “After all this?” 

“I said _if I fall_.” Alistair reminded her. “I’m not going to kill you while there’s a chance something could happen to me. _Someone_ has to take this Blight seriously.” 

“That’s. . . uncharacteristically wise of you.” Anora managed, looking honestly shocked and impressed. Surana fought from mouthing “I told you so” at her. 

“Yes, well, don’t let it get around.” Alistair looked away, “I have a reputation. Guards, take her.”

Surana watched as Anora set her father’s head with his body and allowed the guards to escort her away with all the grace and dignity a Queen was supposed to possess. She swallowed and reminded herself that this was a victory in almost everyway. The civil war was ended, the throne settled, the price on her head a thing of the past, her good friend and the man she loved King in accordance with his blood. 

Of course, they still had the Blight to deal with _and_ now that he was King there was absolutely no future for them as a couple. But still. A victory. 

“Your Highness, will you address the Landsmeet?” Eamon asked. 

Alistair looked up from where he was wiping the blood off his sword. “Oh. . . that would be me.” 

“A wonderful start.” Zevran murmured, Leliana gave a small giggle. 

“Right,” Alistair cleared his throat. “Um, I . . .I never knew him, but from all I’ve heard of my father, what defined him was his commitment to protecting this land.” 

“Blight,” Surana reminded. “We’re a little short on time, your Highness.” 

“I was getting to that,” Alistair cleared his throat. “I am Maric’s son, but I am also a Grey Warden. I swore an oath that I would stand against the Blight, no matter the cost to myself. I will not break that oath just to wear a crown.” 

There were cheers. 

“So I will leave with my fellow Warden until the Blight is defeated. When it is over, I will return to take up my duties, whatever they are, as King.” 

More cheers. 

“Until then, I appoint Arl Eamon as my regent.” 

“Then I can do Maric’s memory no less honor than you,” Eamon bowed. “I accepted, and Maker bless your efforts against the Blight.” 

“For the duration of the Blight it is my hope that my fellow Grey Warden, Neria Surana, will take up Loghain’s position as the leader of my armies until a more suitable commander can be found.” He turned to look at her and lowered his voice. It still echoed, but it was clear he was speaking to _her_. “Shall we finish this together, my friend?” 

Surana dropped into a curtsy. “I could do no less, my King.” 

“We march! It will take all of Ferelden’s strength to defeat this Blight, but we will face it! And we _will_ defeat it!”

* * *

Surana had escaped the muted festivities that echoed throughout Arl Eamon’s estate. It would have been a bigger party, if they hadn’t been getting ready to march south to deal with the darkspawn horde, but it was a victory and Ferelden really needed a win, so celebrations were happening in their small way. 

She was in the library, gathering up a couple of books on tactics so she could distract herself while being productive, smiling almost sadly when she ran across a book Cullen had suggested a year or so ago. She hadn’t seen him in months. Hadn’t _heard_ from him. 

And now she was going to lose the other man she loved. 

“We . . . need to talk.” Alistair said from the doorway. Surana bit down on her cheek. It was almost funny, how fate worked to toss him at her while she was being morose about him. She set her books down and turned to give him her attention while he pushed the door closed. “I’m not going to question why you let Eamon make me king, I’m even coming around to the idea. It could be an interesting future for me. But . . . being king, that raises some questions about _us_. About you and me. 

Surana nodded slowly. 

“There was already the fact that you and I are Grey Wardens.” Alistair ran a distraught hand through his hair. “It’s not just a question of obligation, but . . . blood. You know that Grey Wardens don’t usually live to become old, right?”

“I know.” She wanted to tell him that she already knew everything, she’d run through every reason and always found extras as to _why_ they couldn’t be together. But she also wanted to tell him to hang it all. He was King. They could do whatever they wanted, obligation and social standing be damned. 

The two sentiments crashed into one another in her throat and left her mostly mute. 

“As King,” Alistair looked at the floor. “I’ll be required to have a child. Even more so because my death is assured and the Theirin bloodline is--”

“Why you’re king.” 

He nodded. “That’s assuming that someone with the taint can or even should have a child.” His hands fell limp at his sides and Surana walked over and took them in her, running her thumbs over his knuckles and the small scars and callouses that marked his skin. “I will . . . need a wife. One who can bear that child, and live to raise it. I don’t relish it but, I will have that duty, as king.” He swallowed and she looked up to see tears in his eyes. Surana forced herself to smile, to reach up and to brush the glistening drops away, but Alistair caught her wrists and brought her fingers to his mouth. “I love you, Neria. More than I ever thought possible. But . . . I have to face what this means. I can’t run away from it any more.” His breath tickled the tips of her fingers and Surana stepped in so she could press her face to his chest and blot her own tears away. 

“I know,” she swallowed. “I know, I love you too. I understand.” 

“I’m sorry.” He let go of her arms in favor of curling his around her and clutching her tight. “Neria, I would give anything to--”

“It’s alright,” the sobs threatening to strangle her words made the sentiment less convincing. “I’ve known for a while. You’ll be an excellent king, what Ferelden needs. That’s what matters.” 

“I’d rather trade it all for what I _really_ want. And after Cullen--”

“It doesn’t have to be fair.” She came up on her toes and kissed his neck, desperately wanting to taste his mouth. Alistair kissed her forehead and left little tears behind on her skin. “You’re my best friend, Alistair, my other half. As long as nothing changes _that_ I’ll be alright, even if we’re not . . . together.” 

“You have my word.” He let her go and bowed, dropping to his knee in front of her. “If I could have willed it any other way. . .” 

Surana tilted his head back and kissed both of his cheeks. “I know.”

He stood and wiped his tears away. “We’ll be heading South in the morning, to face the Blight. I’ll. . . I think I’ll head back to my rooms I need . . . I need some time alone.” 

“I understand.”

* * *

She collected her books and walked somberly up to her room, relieved to see that Morrigan had grown irritated with the noise and wandered off somewhere else, probably the stables, having met her. Surana flopped onto her bed and curled around her pillow to muffle her sobs. 

Stanton licked her face and then padded out the door, taking the knob in his teeth and pulling it closed behind him. There was a fwumph when he flopped over in front of it on the other side and Surana choked on a small laugh. 

She tugged off her robes and slid beneath the covers. It was an old trick she had used in the tower a little way to take her mind off her misery and her frustrations. The sheets were silk, the comforter was goose-down, heavy enough to keep the chill away. Surana ran one hand over her breasts and thought about Alistair, not the way he’d looked while he was a step away from sobbing that evening, but that first night when she saw his reflection in the firelight. 

She remembered how he’d pressed her against the wall in the alley after they’d escaped from Fort Drakon. His hands dropped to the buckles on her greaves and his lips pressed to her belly. Surana slid one hand to her lower lips and brushed her index finger along her slit, tears drying and leaving salt on the edges of her eyelashes as she pictured a world where they hadn’t been interrupted. Where rather than her fingers and her bed and her broken heart there was just Alistair. His gambeson tossed aside. His fingers, calloused and strong but consistently gentle working inside her while she tugged his belt loose and let his pants fall around his ankles. 

Her strokes quickened and Surana bit down on her lower lip as the scene played out behind her eyes. Her legs around his hips, his mouth on her skin, solid and real and _hers_ in a way that she’d never imagined anyone actually being. She could feel pressure on her lips from every time she’d kissed him. 

When she came it was with a choked name in her throat and a sore wrist, but it was worth it. She could sleep. Surana rinsed her hand in the bowl of water left by her bedside and wrapped her robes around her well enough to let Stanton know that he could sleep in the bed whenever he wanted, and she curled up and drifted off.


End file.
